


Prove Yourself

by OverWroughtThought



Category: Acquisitions Inc., The "C" Team
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bets & Wagers, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dragonborn (D&D), Drow, F/F, Family Issues, M/M, Rituals, Romantic Comedy, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverWroughtThought/pseuds/OverWroughtThought
Summary: A desperate House Rah'uuthli looks to the surface world for advantage, tasking the worthless boy of the family with marrying (and/or assassinating) a low ranking Prince of Jinaar. A desperate House Blit'zen looks to the Underdark for allies against Skolla, even if those allies ARE ugly hairy mammals. Neither party is enthused with the arrangement, but love has blossomed in stranger places.





	1. Dress to Impress

**Author's Note:**

> Bernadette made [this illustration.](https://twitter.com/bernadettemeeke/status/1102267123093524480) It inspired me to come back from the dead and start this story.

_~ THRISS ~_

 

Thedral gave a sharp tug on the collar of his cloak.

"You have your dagger?" she asked.

"Yes. Two of them. _And_ the hidden one," Thriss replied, doing his level best to keep any annoyance out of his voice.

"Two?" His sister's eyes darted to his belt and the single blade hanging in its scabbard. "Where is it? It better not be one of mine."

He inhaled sharply through his nose, but quelled the desire to sigh, digging into his pocket for the dull, misshapen blade. Thedral's fingers twitched and he pulled it close to his chest before she could take it from him. " _Dad_ gave it to me," he said, forestalling further interrogation. "Called it a…" He wrinkled his nose, stomach clenching around the word, which he spat out with disgust, "… _marriage_ gift."

Thedral slapped the hand holding the knife to the side, a sharp finger poking him in the chest. "Listen you _ungrateful_ little _tanth_ , you have _no idea_ how much work I put into getting this assignment for you. The least you could do is show some gratitude. You do _not_ want to know the other options the Matron Mother considered."

Thriss ducked his head in a contrite bow, resisting the urge to rub at the sore spot on his sternum. "Of course, honored sister. Thank you for the attention and gifts you have rendered for a worthless unmentionable such as myself."

She crossed her hands, frowning. "I can never tell if you're being sarcastic when you spout that nonsense."

Thriss smiled. "Hopefully, neither will the Dragonborn I'm to marry." He didn't stumble on the word this time, letting it roll off his tongue with the blissful numbness of fungal nectar. Thriss straightened, tugging at the cuffs of his embroidered shirt. It felt stiff and unfamiliar, the nicest thing he'd ever been given to wear. He spread his arms wide. "Well…do I look fit for a Prince?"

"He might be a Prince, but he'll always be beneath you in station. You're a drow," Thedral said, and those same sharp fingers ghosted over his white hair, gently smoothing the strands back. Her voice took on a rough pitch as she said, subdued, "Remember that when you're up there, okay?"

He ducked his head away from her hand, hiding eyes burning with shameful emotion. Thedral cleared her throat and turned her back on him, going over his luggage one more time.

"I've packed a few emergency supplies," she said, tucking folded clothes just a little bit tighter. "The most important are in the hidden compartment," she tapped a knuckle against the expensive root wood trunk. Much like the shirt, it was nicer than anything he'd been permitted to touch until now. Clearly, mother wanted him to impress these surface dwellers.

"Thedral…" His voice emerged hesitantly, and she regarded him with a reproving stare for the weak tone. His face felt incandescent under her scrutiny. "Will I be expected to…perform…certain…well…the things that…that married couples…" Abandoning his clumsy vocal fumbling, he resorted to a rude gesture in their House's Dance of Hands.

His sister's face turned a unique shade of purple. Very fortunate the Matron Mother was not with them, or they both would be punished for showing such an obvious sign of embarrassment so easily.

" _No_ ," she said. "He's the fifth in line for the throne. No heirs needed. Not that you could provide one anyway. Not that --" she cut off, flustered. " _No_ , Thriss. You will not be expected to... _perform_ that way."

He couldn't suppress the sigh of relief that escaped him. His joints felt oddly fluid, and he leaned against the wall. Thedral looked away, her face still flushed a radiant lavender, and said stiffly, "I wouldn't have pushed for this option otherwise."

" _Thank you_ ," he said, this time without the not-so-apparent sarcasm. "So what is my assignment, precisely?"

She closed the lid of the trunk, securing it with the spider shaped buckle. "Make nice with your future husband. Gather intelligence. Get married. And then…well…if need be, kill him."

"Oh, I see," he replied, light-headed, "A suicide mission then. Finally, it makes sense."

"It is _not_ ," she yanked the belt around the trunk a little tighter. "Not if I can help it."

"You?"

Thedral hefted a bag and grinned at her brother's baffled expression. "You didn't think the Matron Mother trusted you on your own, did you? I'll be your handler, ready for extraction." She shrugged the other strap of the pack over her shoulder and rested her hand on the sword pommel at her hip. "Besides, that's only if the Prince’s death is to our advantage. Who knows! Maybe we'll just assassinate all his brothers and sisters. How does the title of 'King Consort' suit you?"

Thriss made a face. "I guess it's better than ' _K'hil_ ,' but not by much."

She shoved him into the wall as she opened the door, a playful push that only stung a little. "You're finally getting a chance to prove yourself, brother." The teasing tone dropped abruptly and her glare sent a tremor of dread through his entire frame. " _Don't_ disappoint me."

 

* * *

 

_~ DONAAR ~_

"Why are you always such a big dumb baby about everything?" Pran demanded, yanking the curtains open.

Sunlight, horrible and bright, lanced across Donaar's eyes. He groaned -- no, he _growled_ , as befitted a big strong warrior disturbed from slumber -- and rolled into a tighter ball in the covers.

"Marriages or alliances or whatever are _dumb_. Can't we just wage a war or something?" Donnar whined -- no, _declared_ \-- his voice slightly muffled by the downy comforter. Abruptly the warmth of the soft bed sheets disappeared, torn away from his shoulders.

"AUGH! KEVIN! YOU TRAITOR!" Donaar slapped at the offending tail, who flung the blankets out of reach…and directly onto Pran, who squawked indignantly.

"Donaar! I don't have time for your stupid imaginary friend this morning!" she snapped.

"Hey! Kevin is not an imaginary friend!" Donaar said, the annoyance toward his appendage evaporating at his sister's cruel besmirchment of his regal tail.

"Whatever. Get dressed. The drow delegation's going to be here soon and mother wants you ready to impress. _If you can_."

"I can impress! I'm very impressive!" Donaar floundered out of the bed and yanked at the doors of his dresser. "Besides, they're -- what are they again?"

" _Drow_." Pran looked to the skies. Donaar caught a whispered fragment of a prayer to Vars Melis for patience.

"Sure. Drow," Donaar continued, choosing very gallantly to ignore her prayer. "Those are the…the ones that are like…goblins, but taller? Maybe…a little more…green? Do they have horns at least?"

"No, Donaar. They do not have horns."

"Gross. Why do we wanna impress these guys again?"

Pran clenched her claws and released them…then did it a second time.

" _Please_ stop being difficult. You know you're not the only one getting -- getting _sold off_ right? Mom's in negotiations about me and Prince Shimmerscale."

"Who?"

A flash of fang as Pran's lip curled. "Some Platinum in Skolla."

"Platinum? Also gross."

"Right. But am I complaining? No. I'm trying to make the best of it. Jinaar _needs_ this."

"No we don't! We're the best!" he protested.

"Don't you get it? We have to head Skolla off! Come on, Donaar, you're better at strategy than this."

His hands stilled as he buckled on his sword-belt. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not supposed to know this, but…" Pran leaned in close and whispered, "Schlagur's spies reported rumors that the Platinums are turning their backs on Bahamut. Getting involved in…I dunno. Cult stuff. _Bad_ stuff. Magic and dark sorcery."

"So…cheating," Donaar summed up.

"Sure. Cheating. Call it that if you want," Pran hissed. "The point is, if they're gonna cheat, we need to cheat right back."

"Not if we're better players!"

"This isn't one of your stupid card games!" she shouted. "Don't deny it! I know you've been gambling with those filthy commoners again."

Donaar studiously examined the contents of his closet, unable to meet her eyes.

"Okay. Fine. Allies are good or whatever. I guess," he said, and sullenly pulled out his second shiniest overcoat, shoving his arms through the sleeves. "But at least you get another Dragonborn! Why do I have to deal with some gross…scaleless…hairy _animal_?"

A cutting voice snapped at him from across the room, "Because you're not _good_ for anything else."

Kamit stood in the doorway, in full plate armor, glaring at him.

"Nase wants us all down in the throne room in ten minutes," she added as he opened his mouth to retort. "And I know you don't care about the rest of our family, but at least you could quit disappointing _him._ "

She yanked the door shut again with a thunderous slam. A Glimmer game piece rattled from its place on the board and fell to the ground, rolling across the cold marble. In the silence, Pran knelt to retrieve it, glaring at the door.

"Kami's spitting acid as always," she muttered.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be spitting jewels," Donaar proclaimed, tugging a belt into place. Pran snorted.

"Spitting jewels? Who says that?" she scoffed.

"Everybody. Everybody's saying it. In town. You should get out more," he told her.

"Whatever, you dork," she tossed the game piece to him. He snatched it out of the air by instinct.

Pran opened the door and paused at the threshold, looking over her shoulder. "Hey. I know this is hard, okay? But negotiations with Shimmerscale might not work out and we'll need to fight dark magic with dark magic. If the forces of Vars Melis aren't enough…well, maybe Lolth will do."

She breezed out the door, not waiting for him to reply.

"Who's Lolth?" he asked the empty room. Opening his three fingers, he examined the piece in his hand. A Royal Consort.

"Ugh!" he tossed it over his shoulder. Kevin nimbly caught it, setting it on the board as Donaar passed the table.

"You'll lose in ten turns," Donaar told him. The Dragonborn Prince reached out and plucked another piece up, using it to knock the Royal Consort over. "Nice try, buddy. Not gonna beat me that easily."

He regarded the usurped piece as it lay toppled over on its side.

"Yeah. You know what? Nobody beats Donaar. They'll see. They'll _all_ see."

Straightening his coat, he made his way to the throne room with all the grand pomp and circumstance of a noble Prince of Jinaar.


	2. Opening Moves

_~ DONAAR ~_

"Hey, there's the man of the hour!" Nase met Donaar at the door with a toothy grin and held up his hand. They both executed perfectly timed self-high-fives, the _CLAP_ synchronized so well you'd think the sound came from only one source.

Donaar felt a glow of warmth settle over him like a protective cape. There was the rest of the family…and then there was Nase. Who always made sure Donaar understood he was special. Not that Donaar ever doubted it, of course, but sometimes, especially after he'd been talking with Kamit, or Schlagy, or Pran for too long, it was just…you know, nice for _somebody_ not to be jealous of Donaar's greatness.

Nase was cool like that.

His older brother wrapped a companionable arm around Donaar's shoulders as they walked down the long carpet toward the throne. Massive paned windows stretched into the vaulted ceiling, each ending in a circular panel of stained glass. Vars Melis, in all his resplendent glory, glittered from shards of orange, red, and yellow as the morning sun filled the room with warm light. It always looked best this time of day.

Plus, at this angle, the light would be in the eyes of whoever came into the throne room, giving the king a slight advantage. Never hurt to put a supplicant in their place, just a little.

Nase slowed as they neared the throne, where Kamit and Pran stood at the base of the dais stairs. Leaning in close, his older brother murmured, "Are you sure you're okay with this, buddy?"

"Do I have a choice? Nobody even told me until Mom'd already worked it out," Donaar said, in a definitely-not-petulant tone. This wasn't complaining. He was just clarifying the situation for Nase like any big boy would.

"Hey, of _course_ you have a choice, Donaar," Nase stopped at the base of the stairs, placing hands on both of his shoulders, gaze serious and steady. "The only agreement made is for a courtship period. If you don't want to go through with it..."

To the side, Kamit muttered something under her breath Donaar couldn't quite catch, but it sounded scathing. Nase didn't seem to notice.

"Then we call the whole thing off. No harm done. That's why we _have_ a courtship protocol," his older brother finished.

The glimmer of an idea flickered in Donaar's mind. "And…if the other guy calls it off?" Donaar asked.

Nase shrugged. "Same deal. I mean, we'll do our best to make sure that won't happen. Right guys?" He opened his arms to include Pran and Kamit in the conversation.

"Of course!" Pran said with a toothy, false smile. Kamit's sour snoot didn't change. Pran elbowed her, then winced as she banged her arm on Kamit's cold armor plate.

"Sure," Kamit added, with a hard look at Donaar. "I'm sure we'll _all_ try _really hard_ to make this work."

"Hey, I dunno why you're looking at me that way. _I'm_ great. _Everybody_ loves me," Donnar told her. Kamit rolled her eyes.

Nase squeezed his shoulder. "And he's a lucky guy to marry you," he said. "We just need to make your betrothed feel at home here. Shouldn't be too hard in the greatest city in the world!"

Trumpets blared, announcing the arrival of the delegation. His brother released Donaar's shoulder, taking his place next to their father's chair. Donaar dutifully went to his position on the lowest stair next to Pran. Outside, they heard the muffled exchange of declarations between the guards and the delegation.

Kamit checked the sun dial in the courtyard just beyond the windows. "At least _somebody_ knows how to be punctual," she said.

"Yeah, I can't believe Schlagy isn't here yet," Donaar replied, hands on hips as he looked around the sunlit throne room.

"Schlagur actually _does_ something around here," Kamit snapped. "His precautions are probably the only thing that will keep you alive during this courtship. These are _drow_ we're dealing with!"

"Who cares if they're dru. Drown? Drow. Why does that matter?" Donaar asked.

"I'd tell you to watch your back, but…" Kamit shook her head. "You wouldn't listen anyway. Forget about it, Schlagur and I will take care of everything. Like we always do. Not that it'll matter, since you'll give up in a day."

"Will not!"

"Yeah you will," Pran said casually, examining her nails. "I've got twenty platinum pieces wagered that you'll only make it two weeks."

"I voted less than two _days,_ " Kamit said. "Schlagur gave it a few hours."

"I thought you said gambling was filthy," Donaar glared at Pran. She stuck out her tongue.

"Only when it's with _commoners,_ dummy," she said.

"Nase, what did you bet?" Donaar hated the slight indignant squeak that came out with his question.

"Nobody should be taking bets about this failing," Nase said, with a frown at their sisters. Then he met Donaar's eyes. "I didn't make a bet, but if I had, I'd say you'll see this through like a perfect Prince of Jinaar."

Donaar drew himself up tall, tilting his head back. "Right," he said, and faced the door squarely.

It was all clear to him now. As much as Pran protested, this _was_ a game, and he was going to win it. The objective? Get the other guy to call off the engagement, but make it look like Donaar did everything he could to make it work. How hard could that be? Whoever this guy was, he wasn't a dragonborn, which automatically made him a Loser. Donaar, of course, was a born Winner.

Couldn't ask for better odds!

Another blare of trumpets. The delegation neared the throne room. Behind the siblings a small door to the inner sanctum opened, and their mother emerged with Schlagur and a retinue of guards in glittering armor. She nodded to Kamit and Pran, briefly touched Nase's shoulder, and ignored Donaar entirely. Which was fine. She probably didn't want to make the others feel bad by making a big fuss over him.

As she settled into the Consort's throne, the seneschal entered from the main hall.

"Your majesty, House Rah'Uuthli of the drow present their son to you at the appointed time. Do you wish to permit them entry?"

His mother nodded coolly and the seneschal bowed low, opening the doors.

Let the game begin.

An eagerness to get the measure of his opponent thrummed in Donaar's blood and he leaned forward on his toes. Which piece would the drow place on the board? A paladin? A cleric? A royal, like himself?

The doorway disgorged a host of short, gangly, armored mammals who filed to the shadows on either side of the door. They looked like a pile of crawling beetles, all round carapace and spiky legs. Gross, but tough. Maybe a battlements piece then?

The wall of shining black armor parted, revealing a creature that looked downright gaunt compared to the bulk of the guards. Instead of armor he wore a blue cloak and a dark embroidered tunic. Black leggings exposed twig-like legs which disappeared in tall knee high boots of a weird looking leather. Blue skin, white hair. No horns. Not even a tail. These drow really didn't have _anything_ going for them.

Donaar stood on his tip-toes, angling his head this way and that, attempting to look past the servant for the person his mother wanted him to marry.

"Where is he?" he muttered to Pran.

"That _is_ him!" she hissed back.

Donaar blinked.

"Oh."

Then he smiled.

A pawn. They'd sent a _pawn._

This would be easier than he thought.

* * *

_~ THRISS ~_

Whenever entering negotiations for an alliance, there were two accepted tactics for the opening move. Either to appear far more powerful, angling for the other party's supplication, or to appear weak, angling for their complacency. There were advantages and disadvantages to both approaches, and naturally while the opposing party knew whatever tact taken was not the truth, they wouldn't know to what degree. The show of force might be only a little greater than the true might of a House, the false weakness only slight of hand to hide the blade.

Naturally, Thriss never got included in such negotiations before, but Thedral took the journey as an opportunity to fill him in on the nuances. Since the dragonborn were largely an unknown operating on their home turf, she'd opted for a blending of the two approaches. The delegation would serve as a show of force, but Thriss would go out alone. After introductions were over the troops would withdraw, but Thedral would remain behind secretly, having gained access to the inner sanctum. The Jinaari dragonborn would never realize their defenses were subverted.

They'd _expect_ it, of course, but knowing betrayal would happen and being able to prove it were entirely different things.

"And my part in this?" Thriss asked.

"Same tactic," Thedral said. "We're going for a blend of weakness and strength. Too weak, and they'll abandon the alliance. Too strong and they'll view us as a threat."

"An average day at home, then. Should be easy," he said.

"Sarcasm again?" Thedral asked.

"Was it?"

"Just don't make a fool of yourself and you'll be fine," she grumbled, and went back to studying the stolen blueprints she'd acquired of the Jinaar palace.

Of course it was sarcasm. Enduring his mother's wrath was one thing, but at least she was only one person. A terrifying, easily-angered, dangerous person, but singular nonetheless. As he stood in the shadow of the doorway and looked down the long walk toward the dais, six massive dragonborn stared back at him, flanked by a solid wall of gleaming guards, their armor casting lances of bright light that stung his eyes.

Worst of all, they'd flooded the hall with coarse, burning sunlight.

Oh, they were cruel, these dragonborn. Although Thriss could not fault them for utilizing their harsh environment to put him at a disadvantage. He'd foolishly removed his gloves and taken down the hood of his cloak upon entrance to the palace. To don them now would demonstrate not only weakness, but highlight his careless stupidity. It never occurred to him that anyone would carve structural weaknesses into their walls specifically to let light in. Not only would he have to cross the hall with skin exposed to those rays, but it would shine directly in his eyes. A brilliant weaponization of the environment. He appreciated it from an intellectual level, even as he dreaded enduring the trap they'd laid for him.

A deep breath to quell his rising nerves. Nothing for it.

He stepped into the light.

The ears began to sting first, sensitive skin heating as though he'd leaned over a candle flame. Next his cheeks flared into discomfort, followed by nose and lips. He instinctively drew them inward in an odd frown, then forced them to part in a smile, which only grew as the pain spread.

Halfway there.

His eyes watered and he tried not to squint too much, carefully rationing his blinks to prevent tears from falling without giving away his discomfort. As much as he wanted to sprint across the planes of horrid light and pause in the blissful gaps of shadow between windows, he forced his steps to an even and measured pace. The dragonborn already knew they'd put him into a position of weakness, so he must balance it with a show of strength.

Three quarters of the way. Were his hands blistering? Smoking? A quick glance down showed only slight peeling of the skin, not blackening flesh, although the sensation insisted otherwise.

For a moment he hoped they'd let him pause in one of the small patches of shadow, but of course the queen waited until he was at the center of the final window before she stood, a clear signal for him to stop. Such viciousness would give even his own Matron Mother pause. Truly, this dragonborn queen was to be commended. He bowed low.

"Thriss Rah'Uuthli, the Blit'zen family welcomes you to our hall. May you find friendship and family in the great nation of Jinaar," the matriarch's words were warm, but the tone cold. Thriss felt oddly at home.

"It is an honor," Thriss replied. "May our people find new strength and mutual advancement in alliance."

Sweat soaked the inside of his stiff embroidered tunic, chafing as he straightened. A trickle escaped his hair and wormed its way down his brow. His hands itched to swipe away the moisture, but he held them still, stubbornly exposing them to the hateful light in defiance. The dragonborn before him showed no discomfort in the heat, their scales gleaming in painful, monstrous radiance.

The individual at the bottom of the stairs fidgeted, each movement causing new reflections off of the dazzling overcoat he wore, flashing back and forth over Thriss' face. It was unclear if this action was a purposeful attack or a careless cruelty. Each new movement cut a swath of painful light across his eyes. Thriss suppressed his winces as best he could. The dragonborn opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He leaned over to the female royal next to him and said in a loud stage whisper, "He keeps giving me this weird look. All squinty? You think something's wrong with his eyes?"

Thriss' ears twitched with annoyance. Ah. Apparently it was not enough to emphasize his position of weakness in this foreign land. They expected him to humble himself as well. For a fraught instant he debated if he should continue feigning false strength, but concluded it served no purpose to hide the weakness they already exploited so effectively.

"You are most observant," he said to the fidgeting dragonborn.

The twitchy royal snapped to attention. "I am? I mean, I am. Obviously."

"Fear not, _friend,_ my eyes are quite adequate for my needs. Merely unused to your _glorious_ sun. I admit, I find its light a _little_ uncomfortable," Thriss said. No time like the present to test if his family-to-be would share Thedral's trouble at recognizing his sarcasm.

"You do?" The tallest dragonborn, standing next to the empty chair at the top of the dais, performed an admirable impression of surprise. Truly top notch acting. Thriss filed the individual's skill at duplicity away for future reference. The imposing male snapped his claws and servants rushed forward to pull curtains over the horrid light.

Thriss inhaled a deep breath of relief as cool shadow spread a balm on stinging skin, straightening his posture from a hunch he hadn't meant to assume. As much as he resented the demand for him to debase himself, he felt oddly thankful to the fidgeting dragonborn who brought an end to his torment.

"Are you all right?" the smallest royal on the first step asked, taking a hesitant step forward. He kept his feet firmly rooted, despite the urge to lean away as she circled him.

"Perfectly fine. Merely a little discomfort to the sk--!" he nearly yelped as she grabbed his hand and prodded at it. Apparently dragonborn had a different definition of decorum.

"I can see blisters!" she exclaimed, examining his hand. He hissed as she poked at his face.

"Pran! Control yourself," the matron snapped. The dragonborn accosting him, Pran, dropped his hand and slunk back to her position on the stairs. There was an awkward silence in the hall.

On the second step, a royal in full armor stared at him with unblinking intensity. Then she gestured to the fidgeting dragonborn below her.

"If Donaar hadn't said anything, how long would you have stood there like that?" she asked, voice hard.

"Until dismissed, of course," he replied. What a strange question.

"Huh," she leaned back and folded her arms. Her tail tapped her calves in an idle rhythm. Thriss felt oddly…approved of.

"Hey, Pran?" the armored lady said, "I wanna change my bet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I've characterized any of Donaar's siblings incorrectly:  
> A) This is an AU, causality remains a joke  
> B) It's Ryan's fault for running away from any opportunity to share his backstory


	3. Gathering Intelligence

~ DONAAR ~

"Well _that_ was a complete disaster," Pran moaned from her sprawl on the fainting couch.

Nase cleared his throat, hands picking books off the library shelves at random. "It could have gone better. I never thought about how little we know about drow." He paused, looking down at the book in his hand. _Histories of the Noble Dragonborn Families, Little Known Uncles and Aunts of Valor._ "Or…anybody who isn't dragonborn, for that matter. I can't believe we made him stand in the sun like that."

"I can't believe he didn't _say_ anything!" Donaar exclaimed from the floor, where he sat picking at a Glimmer board. "What kind of weirdo just lets his face burn off?"

"One with mental discipline," Kamit remarked as she stood by the fireplace. "I'm not surprised you don't get it."

Pran sat up, grinning at her sister. "You like this drow, don't you?"

Kamit shrugged. "I think Thriss is gonna give Donaar trouble, is all." She turned a smug snoot to her younger brother. "It's not going to be easy to drive this suitor off."

"What? Drive off? I dunno what you're talking about," Donaar sputtered, placing a Royal piece on the board with a clack. "I'm _super_ down for this whole dumb marriage alliance thing." The Royal Consort joined the Royal with an even louder impact and a splintering sound. Donaar held up the piece, exposing a split down the carved wood. "Cheap set I guess." He tossed the broken remains of the Royal Consort piece into the fire.

A gusty sigh from the shadows announced Shlagur's presence. Everybody jumped, then tried to pretend they hadn't.

"Wow, thanks for joining us Schlagy!" Donaar declared in a loud, irate voice.

"How do you even _do_ that?" Pran asked her older brother. "You show up out of nowhere! I watched the door _the whole time_!"

Schlagur shoved Pran's legs to the side and sat down on the couch next to her, stretching his back. "You _do_ know there are secret passages in this place, right? Castle's full of them."

"But they're so hard to fiiiiiind!" Pran whined.

"What took you so long? It's not like we've been waiting for _ages_ or anything," Donaar said, continuing to set up the board. He dug a bit of blue glass from a decorative vase and substituted it for the broken Royal Consort. The glass bauble looked squat and ugly compared to the tall wooden carvings around it, their copper paint gleaming warmly in the firelight.

"The royal physician didn't know how to treat such a strange non-dragonborn ailment," Schlagur explained. "So I had to send for someone from the lower quarters. An elf. Very highly regarded. Except he arrived, took one look at the drow, and refused to help."

"Did you threaten him?" Kamit asked.

"Of _course_ I threatened him!" Schlagur snapped, indignant. "Most stubborn mammal I've ever met! Said it would be an insult to his gods!" Schlagur rubbed the sensitive scales on his nose, exasperated. "I had to settle for a reputable herb witch. Human, I think? Or maybe a gnome? They're all so small."

"This only proves my point!" Nase said from the bookshelf, returning another tome. _A Resplendence of Copper Wings._ "If we're going to make this work, we need to know more about Thriss' people!" He turned to his siblings, hands on hips. "What do we know about drow?"

"No horns, no scales, no tails," Donaar said from the floor. "So basically, they're really ugly."

"Okay, that's a good start," Nase replied with a laugh. He wandered over to Donaar and sat down cross-legged next to him, setting up the black opposing pieces. "What else?"

Pran fidgeted in her seat, her back frills fluttering as she looked down at her hands.

"Spill it, Pran," Kamit said.

" _Well,_ " Pran said, a little too loud. "I hear that the drow are all…uh…" her voice dropped to a whisper, "... _hedonistic sex fiends._ "

"Where did you hear _that_?" Kamit asked.

"I read it! In a book! A very reputable book!" Pran jumped up and went to one of the back shelves in the library, pulling a thin volume from the top shelf. Fanciful gold letters decorated lurid red leather. _The Shadow in Her Sheets,_ the title read.

"It's…it's a historical novel!" she said, clutching it close. "Did…did you know that a copper dragon once had a drow lover?"

"No way a _dragon_ would be interested in something _that_ ugly," Donaar said, moving a pawn in his opening gambit.

"I think I've heard of this," Nase said. "Ilnezhara, right? I think that's what her courtship rite is based off of?"

"Yeah! She and a drow named Jarlaxle exchanged gifts!" Pran sighed. "It was _really_ romantic." Her frills fluttered again. "And…uh…you know. Other stuff."

Kamit snatched the book from Pran's hands. "Let me see that," she said.

"No, don't!" Pran shouted, lunging for the book. Kamit easily blocked her smaller sister with her armored tail, flipping through the pages. "There are…!"

A pause. Kamit's frills began fluttering as well, a rare sight in the usually unflappable sister.

"What?" Schlagur asked, leaning forward to pour himself a dram of dragon's breath liquor from the decanter on the end table.

Kamit snapped the book shut, looking at Pran with large eyes.

"…illustrations," Pran said, weakly.

Kamit tucked the book in her back pocket with an inscrutable expression.

"Speaking of rites…" Nase said, "How is Donaar supposed to perform the Galadaeros rite when none of Thriss' female relatives are here?"

"Yeah, it doesn't seem fair," Pran added. "Donnar's got me and Kamit, but Thriss is all alone."

"No, he's not," Schlagur said, with a sour snoot. "There's definitely at least one drow agent in the palace. The count of the drow delegation was off when they left."

"Should we be concerned?" Kamit asked.

"No idea," Schlagur replied, downing his drink and breathing out as the liquor burned his throat. "For all we know, this is standard for drow courtship. Then again, maybe this agent will kill us all in our sleep."

"Better not," Donaar grumbled, "I gotta get my eight in."

"We'll catch them eventually," Schlagur said, and added with grudging respect, "Even if they _are_ evasive."

"We should ask Thriss about it tomorrow," Pran said. "Drow courtship rites, I mean. Maybe there's something we should be doing too?"

"Wait, doesn't everybody do courtship the same way?" Donaar asked.

A moment of silence.

Nase knocked over his Royal, conceding the game. Donaar gave a whoop of victory. His older brother stood, looking to Kamit. "Maybe we ought to write up a schedule for Thriss, just in case."

* * *

  _~ THRISS ~_

Thriss couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he opened the jar of salve. This shameful trembling must be the burns, an unavoidable chemical reaction to physical pain. In his head the same word rang over and over.

_Bet. Bet. Bet._

"Thedral," he hissed to the empty room. "Did you hear it?"

The fireplace sat empty, the curtains in front of the horrid windows drawn carefully closed. A patch of shadow peeled itself away from the corner of the dark room.

"I heard it," she replied, and took the jar from his fingers. She smeared a cooling glop over the back of his blistered hands, giving a slight nod of approval when he made no sound.

"They're making _bets_ ," he continued. "Is there a rivalry we don't know about?"

"I'll look into it," she told him. "This place is laughably easy to get around." She nodded to the corner she'd appeared from. "Secret passages everywhere. Stupidly easy to find. You see that wall sconce?"

He studied the gaudy thing, all glinting polished metal and gemstones, formed into the roaring visage of a copper dragon.

"Pretty much every piece of frivolous decoration in the shape of a dragon head opens a secret passage," Thedral told him. "The only way they could have made it more obvious would be to put up a sign."

"Good to know there's an escape route when Kamit or Donaar tires of their game and _skins me alive_ ," he said.

"Exactly," Thedral agreed, yet again missing his sarcasm. Maybe the problem wasn't her. Maybe his sarcasm needed work.

"Thedral, if this is a game between these dragonborn, we may as well leave. This is a waste of time," he said.

" _No."_ Thedral swiped more of the thick salve across his face in a vehement slash. He winced. "I will _not_ return a _failure,_ " she said, with far more force than necessary.

He studied her face.

"What aren't you telling me?" he asked.

She wiped her hands on the rag the herb witch left, refusing to look at him as she capped the jar.

"Nothing. Stop worrying. I'll take care of it. That dragonborn Prince won't even _think_ of touching you," she told him.

Thedral retreated to the corner, reaching for the wall sconce.

"Mother's going to kill me, isn't she," he said to her back, not even bothering to make it a question. Thedral paused. Then sighed.

"…I told you, you didn't want to know the other options," she said.

She yanked on the dragon's jaws, snapping them shut. With barely a whisper, a crack opened in the wall. Then she was gone.

Moments later, a knock spooked him from his reverie. He unlocked and opened the door of his guest room, squinting in the light of the hallway. The seneschal stood outside, posture prim and stiff. The servant met Thriss' eyes and gave the barest hint of a bow. Thriss returned the gesture, careful to keep his bow slightly more shallow than the dragonborn's bow.

The result was each gave the other a nearly imperceptible nod.

With a flourish, the seneschal presented a rolled piece of parchment, sealed with wax. "From the royal family. An itinerary for the coming days. The rite of Galadaeros is to begin tomorrow morning, shortly after dawn. I assure you, all precautions will be taken to account for your…deformity," the seneschal said, with a sniff at Thriss' paste-covered burns.

"See that you do," Thriss replied, with a haughty tilt of the head he'd seen his mother use. "Drow servants would never be so incompetent to allow a guest to endure the same inconvenience twice."

"We shall do our best to earn your vexation in a variety of new, exciting ways," the seneschal said smoothly.

Ah, now _that_ was well executed sarcasm. Thriss did his best to match the tone. "Why _thank you_ ever so much." He closed the door.

Needing slightly more light for reading, he lit a candle by the bedside and broke the wax seal.

 

_Itinerary of Courtship Rites_

_Rite of Galadaeros_

_Rite of Ilnezhara_

_Rite of Tyrangal_

_Rite of Tazmikella_

_Rite of Chatulio_

_Rite of Vars Melis_

 

Thriss set the scroll down, stomach cramping in a dry heave. How could he perform rituals he'd never heard of?  His gaze drifted to the corner where Thedral had disappeared. Thriss rolled the scroll up tightly, gripping it until the paper cracked and warped.

It didn't matter. There were no other options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not making up the romance between Ilnezhara and Jarlaxle. That's canon, and it was too perfect not to use. I know, I'm surprised as Donaar.


	4. Rite of Galadaeros

_~THRISS~_

"When Ranressa Shiard shipwrecked on the Purple Rocks, in her human ignorance she mistook the noble copper dragon Galadaeros as a threat," Kamit intoned, slowly pacing in ceremonial rhythm. She circled the interior of the massive construction of sailcloth and wooden poles. It stretched forty paces in length and fifteen paces deep, taking up a significant portion of the outdoor green, largely empty except for a table at the far end covered with orange and gold silk. "Shiard attacked Galadaeros, who in his wisdom and strength knew she did so out of ignorance rather than malice. He defended himself with ease and rather than kill her, gave her questions. For three nights and three days they battled. On the third day, the fighting stopped. Not because one emerged a victor, but because they became friends."

Kamit pulled the silk cover, exposing a massive array of gleaming, sharp weaponry. She selected a broadsword for herself, admiring its sheen and balance, and tilted her head at Thriss in what he presumed was a challenge.

"Today, we shall also exchange blows and questions. May we, too, emerge as friends," she said.

He pressed his fingertips together with a slight inclination of his head. "I take it, in this analogy, I am the human?"

Kamit bared fangs, or perhaps she smiled, and spun the broadsword in her hand. "We are _all_ the human." The blade whispered through the air in smooth motions, a warrior's salute. "Until one of us scores a touch and becomes the dragon."

Pran delicately selected a long spear, checking its edge. She yelped, stuffing her finger in her mouth to suck on the cut. "Der are free wrounds," she mouthed around her thumb, but popped it out and quickly hid the injured finger behind her at Kamit's sour look. Thriss watched with fascination as the seemingly immovable plates at the back of Pran's head fluttered fluidly. "Uh, I mean, there are three rounds for both Kamit and me," Pran said again, far more intelligibly. "The first person to draw blood on the other gets to ask a question, which the loser must answer truthfully."

"Then this is not a match to the death?" Thriss asked.

"What? No!" Pran exclaimed, affronted.

"Accidents _do_ happen," Kamit admitted, "but that's what the cleric is for." She gestured to a dragonborn with graying scales who stood near the tent entrance. His robes gleamed, metal threads catching the light at his back.

"I will be on call to heal any injuries sustained," he said, a slight sneer at his lips as he took in the web motif of Thriss' dark drow clothing. "Provided the Lady Lolth does not interfere with the grace of Vars Melis."

Ah. Thriss saw the shape of it now. How simple to maim or kill under the guise of an _accident,_ how perfectly reasonable for the cleric's healing to go awry due to the influence of _Lolth._ Whatever Kamit's rivalry with Donaar, she could easily end it here. By some miracle he must keep his skin and limbs through this challenge. Thriss maintained no illusions of earning the right to a question, but if either sister made a mistake he could exploit, perhaps he could divine the nature of the bet between these siblings. Thriss knew they'd lie, of course, as would he, but the nature of the lie might lead him to a fuller truth.

Important to have something to look forward to, instead of fixating on how much of his body he might lose. He hoped they wouldn't go for his eyes, at least. Perhaps just a leg? He could make do without a leg.

Pran gestured to the table of deadly implements. "Select your favored weapon," she told him. "And we can get started!"

He approached the table, looking over each weapon with care. Most were sized for dragonborn, massive blades and spears. Even the daggers were as large as a standard drow short sword. A potential loophole took shape in his mind.

"Alas, it seems we cannot proceed. My favored weapon is not here," he said, turning his back on the table to bow to the two sisters. "My apologies, I was _so_ looking forward to --"

"Tell us what you need," Kamit said. "We shall fetch it."

The horrid sun rose in the sky until directly overhead before the seneschal presented the royals with a befuddled groundskeeper who explained that, yes, they could find what they were looking for in the gardening shed. Two battered, well worn sickles were presented to the dragonborn cleric, who gravely blessed them with a sprinkling of water. The temperature within the tent had risen significantly since the cooler dawn. Thriss mentally kicked himself for his attempt at cleverness while accepting the sickles with a gracious smile.

"You are _far_ too kind," he said.

"Think nothing of it. A warrior should always go into battle with the blade they trust most," Kamit replied. "…even if those blades _are_ typically used against weeds."

"Mushrooms, actually," he told her, turning the sickles this way and that in his hands. These were also oversized, but at least they felt somewhat familiar.

"Mushrooms," she repeated dryly.

"And the odd sacrifice, I suppose. Although it's rare a boy would have the privilege," he added. Thriss _hadn't_ ever performed a sacrifice, of course, but they needn't know that.

Pran clapped her hands together. "Finally! Let's do this!"

With a rumbling chant, the cleric drew symbols in the air with his claws, leaving trailing sparks of light. Thriss followed the gestures intently, fascinated despite his nerves. In a thunderous clap the cleric's hands came together. Motes of light burst outward, settling on everyone within the tent. Thriss felt them seep into his skin and constrict around his throat. He swallowed, unable to banish the strange warming sensation that filled his mouth.

"What did you do?" he asked, a little too quickly.

"A truth spell," the cleric said, the glint in his eyes as smug and malicious as the finest Lolth priestess. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Of _course_ n--!" the final word caught in his throat, the warming sensation increasing as his vocal cords refused to obey his will. "I am _plea_ \--" Again the constriction. Even his trusty sarcasm abandoned him under the spell's effects. "A little," he admitted at last. Understatements, it seemed, would at least slip through. Good to know where the boundaries lay.

"I don't like them either," Pran said in a whisper meant to be conspiratorial. Thriss suspected dragonborn hearing left a lot to be desired. Perhaps that's why everything they did was so loud.

He swallowed again, still unable to banish the lingering magic from his tongue, and held up his sickles in a defensive stance. "Do you both attack at once, or…?"

Pran lunged in with her spear and instinct alone saved him from a skewering blow. As he pivoted to the outside of the thrust, he caught the spear shaft with one sickle, reaching with the other to hook around her shoulder. Before he could connect, she shoved the caught spear into him, knocking him clean off his feet. His shoulder impacted the ground first, but the momentum flipped his feet over his head in a tumble. He skidded to the edge of the tent's protective cover. His ears, still recovering from yesterday's sunburn, lit up in pain at further exposure and he rolled back into the safety of the shade just as Pran loomed over him.

"Boop," she said, and with a quick jab dealt him a shallow cut on his shoulder, barely enough to bleed. She stepped away, allowing him to sit up. His hand went instinctively to the wound, but it already began to clot. He'd suffered worse goblin bites.

"I don't understand. Isn't this a fight?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I wanna hurt you," Pran replied. She gave an expert twirl of her staff, setting the butt end against the ground with a gentle _thump,_ and graced him with a flash of her many teeth. "Besides, I get the impression you're not much of a fighter."

He didn't bother answering, only gathered up his sickles, sparing a quick glance at Kamit. The other dragonborn stood at the edge of the tent next to the cleric, observing the proceedings with crossed arms. It seemed the fights were one-on-one, at least for now. Pran no doubt had specific instructions not to harm him too badly, coaxing him into a false sense of security Kamit could later exploit. Thriss would not be lulled so easily.

"So! My first question is…How do drow view…" Pran began, and the plates at the back of her head fluttered again, "Sssss--Romance?"

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"You know! Courtship! Love!" she gave a ludicrous little twirl, oddly light on her feet for such a massive creature.

"I don't know the meaning of those words," he told her.

"Uh…drow _do_ get married and stuff, right?"

"We form alliances, yes. Usually temporary. For the purposes of children, or because a woman takes a particular liking to a male."

"Right! That! How do two people know they're right for each other?" she asked, leaning down to look him in the eyes, which felt unnerving and far too intimate. He felt his cheeks flush lavender.

"The way any such coupling is done. She sees something she likes and she claims it. And if the male is very lucky…" He shot a glance at Kamit, hoping to assess her reaction, "There are no rivalries to put him at risk."

"Rivalries? Ooh, how do ladies prove their love in the Underdark? Are there presents? _Songs_?" Pran's voice took on a high pitch that hurt his ears.

"Sometimes there are fights. Poisonings. _Bets,_ " he stared at Kamit across the tent, ignoring Pran. Meeting the eyes of a woman so boldly made his stomach squirm like an unearthed grub, but his life could depend on reading her reaction. To his frustration, the scaled snout remained impassive.

"Woah! Intense! What happens when one of them wins?" Pran asked, breathless.

"The male's skin is left in the opponent's bed chamber," he said shortly. There, a reaction from Kamit! Movement of the head, mouth slightly open. The plates at the back of her head spread briefly, then closed. What did that signify?

" _WHAT??"_ Pran shouted. He took a step backward as his ears rang under the sudden assault. Thriss refocused his attention on his current opponent.

"Is that not common practice here?" he asked, keeping his tone mild.

" _NO!_ What? That's just -- _Ew!!_ Sorry I asked! _"_ Pran stuck her tongue out, scrunching eyes closed and flaring nostrils in an exaggerated expression of disgust. Not as good an actor as her brother Nase.

They were toying with him, these dragonborn. Irritation seeped under his skin. Recklessly, he flipped the sickle into a reversed grip and lunged for a low hook of Pran's knee. She yelped, yanking her leg out of the way and digging the spear into the ground to keep her balance. Pran dragged the end of her weapon through the turf, sending a spray of damp earth and clods of soft-bladed lichen into the air. He shielded his eyes and danced backward, circling. She lashed out with a quick strike at his midsection. He caught the spear tip in the curve of his sickle, but misjudged the force required to deflect a dragonborn's strike. Rather than skewering him through the midsection, she sliced a long cut across his side. This injury bled far more freely.

"Ooh, sorry!" Pran said. "I forgot how little natural armor you mammals -- uh, drow -- have."

Her sarcasm was not lost on him. At least, he assumed it was sarcasm. He pressed one arm against the wound.

"Do you require my services?" the cleric called from the sidelines. So eager to highlight his weakness. Thriss refused to be further humiliated.

"It is of no consequence," he answered. "Ask your question, Lady Pran. I have no choice but to answer truthfully."

"I'm almost afraid to. Uh…How can we make you more comfortable here? Is there anything else, like the sun problem, we should know about?"

Thriss bit off a short laugh. As if he would provide a comprehensive list of his limitations. "Keeping the windows covered during the day should be sufficient for my needs," he replied.

"That's it? No favorite food? Or…or I dunno, color, hobby, _something?_ " Pran pressed.

"I've answered your question for the round already," he replied with a cold smile.

Pran huffed. "Have it your way," she said, and swept her spear down in a quick slash. He danced backward, his wounded side leaving a thin trail of red in his wake. No matter. A disciplined mind need not heed the paltry complaints of the flesh. He moved the front sickle in a feint at the knee he'd targeted before. Pran moved her leg out of the way, throwing herself off balance. The second sickle came forward, hooking around the back of her neck. He pulled and heard a rasping scrape as the sickle blade connected with scales…and slid across them, the gardening tool too dull to bite into flesh. Pran reared back, yanking the sickle out of his grasp, and punched him squarely in the nose.

An explosion of colors. The rushing rumble of an underground waterfall echoing through caverns. White, endless white, the color of old bones.

Thriss' eyes slowly came into focus, discerning the creases in the pale cloth above him, held aloft by long wooden poles. Hands were on his face, claws at his side. He tried to pull away, but found his body unwilling to respond to his mind. The rumbling resolved into the voice of the cleric. The moment Thriss registered the pain, it vanished, only a warm tingling sensation remaining. The cleric pulled away and Thriss sat up.

Then promptly got knocked down again as Pran threw her arms around him.

"I am _so sorry!_ I didn't mean to hit you that hard! Huugh, _Vars_ , I thought you were _deaaaaad!"_ At such proximity her voice nearly deafened him. She squeezed him tightly, her crushing embrace making it impossible to breathe. Just as he thought he might pass out again, she pulled back, helping him to his feet. Thriss collected himself hurriedly, not wishing to prolong his vulnerability any longer than necessary.

"Have…have you a third question?" he asked.

"Can you forgive me?" Pran looked at him with large, teary eyes.

"…yes?" he replied, confused at what she wanted from him. Surely she wouldn't waste her final question on something so…meaningless?

To his horror, her arms closed around him in another embrace, although thankfully a little looser than the last. "Thank you," she sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "Ugh. _Vars,_ Nase would have _killed_ me."

Ah, that made more sense. It seemed Nase was invested in Thriss remaining alive? If Pran risked his wrath, that meant she considered herself a subordinate sibling of _Nase,_ not Kamit. Interesting. Where in the hierarchy did Nase fall? A firstboy shouldn't have any power over a daughter, but these were dragonborn. If males could hold sway here, that meant the power dynamics of House Blit'zen contained far more variables than just the women of Jinaar. This would require further study.

Kamit stepped forward, pulling her sword from its scabbard.

Provided he lived that long.

The cleric presented him with his sickles once more, useless though they were against dragonborn hide. Thriss briefly considered refusing them. As a weapon they were entirely symbolic, but such things mattered in a ritual. He'd survived the first sister. Now to face the second. Perhaps with Nase and therefore Pran in favor of keeping him alive, Kamit wouldn't risk dispatching him in such an obvious manner. He accepted the sickles, giving Kamit a polite bow.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

He didn't realize he'd been injured until warm blood spilled into his eyes. A shallow cut right across his forehead. Kamit flicked her wrist, scattering droplets of red from her blade onto the green at their feet. Every muscle felt locked in place with shock. When had her arm moved?

"Would Lolth aid us in a fight against Tiamat?" she asked him.

Numbly, he reached up and touched his forehead, looking at the blood on his fingertips in disbelief. "Perhaps," he said, absentmindedly, as though another self answered in his stead, "but once the fighting began under her influence, it would never stop. She delights in strife."

"You don't sound very fond of your own goddess," Kamit remarked. Her entire body flowed in a graceful lunge and Thirss threw himself backward, sickles up to block her strike. The sword weaved effortlessly through them, seeming to create an opening in his defense by sheer force of will. A slash appeared in the cloth of his tunic, the barest hint of a cut underneath.

"What is your opinion of Lolth?" Kamit demanded.

"I fear and re--" his voice cut off, throat heating under the influence of the truth spell. _Respect her_ , he thought, but the words would not come. "I fear and wo--" Again his tongue froze, unable to utter the word _worship._ His breath quickened. What was wrong with the cleric's spell? He was a pious boy, devotee of Lolth, the supreme goddess of his people. That _was_ the truth.

Wasn't it?

"I…" the close, hot air inside the tent pressed in on him, smothering. "…despise her," the words slipped out no more than a whisper, but once uttered others rushed to follow. "She is _petty_ and cruel without purpose. Without _reason."_ His breathing grew erratic, speech rising in intensity and volume, words tearing their way out of his throat as though waiting his whole life to be spoken. "She delights in _mortal_ suffering and _mortal_ concerns. Small, so _stupidly_ small! She disgusts me! _They all do!_ " Shouting, he was shouting, and abruptly he couldn't breathe at all.

It couldn't be true, could it? 

A wave a dizziness flowed through him and he swayed. Pran steadied him with a claw at his shoulder.

"I am… _k'hil,"_ he said, dazed. They'd been right about him. How could the other drow have known, when Thriss himself had no idea?

"Kill Hill?" Pran asked.

"A…a non-believer. Heretic. Lunatic. Dead…dead man." He drew away from them both, shaken. Was that why the Matron Mother intended to sacrifice him? Had Thedral known? Suddenly, this surprise trip to the surface made sense. The only place safe for a _k'hil_ would be where Lolth's shadows were thinnest.

Silence spread through the tent like a held breath. He felt their eyes on him, assessing. What madness made him confess this secret to strangers? Had the sun boiled his brain after only two cycles on the surface? Or had Pran's fist simply opened up some wound inside his skull, drowning his capacity for reason? Not only _k'hil,_ but a fool. If only a sinkhole would open up beneath him.

"Are you okay?" Pran asked, hesitant. She once again placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it tethering him to the earth. He inhaled deeply, shaking himself free of the recriminations.

"…Yes," he said. If he could speak it, it must be true. As the tumult of fear faded, a strange peace settled over him. Everything seemed crisper, the lines of the world sharper to his eyes. As though the webs of his false faith parted and for a brief moment the true strands of existence were laid bare before him. The beating of his heart slowed, the low rhythm filling his ears, a pulse that subsumed his consciousness. The threads were everywhere, spreading out in eternal lines like endless veins, crossing all planes and times. He sensed a symbol underneath the world, but could not make out its shape, only knew with instinctive certainty of its presence. A deeper shadow waiting in the darkness to be discovered.

He felt his body turn, eyes meeting Kamit's. Saw the moment she understood his readiness. Her existence split into an infinite number of possibilities for violence against his person, but in one he saw his body flow around her strike, arm reaching forward to slash the sickle across the only patch of scales delicate enough to bleed. Beneath his blade the skin parted.

He stumbled.

The world rushed back into focus, an abrupt collapse of sensations. Odors of dust, hot canvas, bruised vegetation. The metallic tang of his own blood in his mouth. Oppressive heat within the tent enveloping skin beaded with sweat. A gasp from Pran, a hiss from Kamit, his own ragged breathing. Thriss looked up and saw Kamit holding the end of her nose. Red dripped down her scales. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"What…what happened?" he asked.

Kamit snorted. "You got a lucky shot," she replied.

Thriss felt too stunned to regret wasting his only question.

* * *

  _~ DONAAR ~_

An itch at his neck partially roused Donaar from sleep. He reached a claw to scratch at it, but the itch turned into a sharp pressure and a voice intruded on his otherwise peaceful dreams.

"Move and I'll slit your throat, boyy _yAAHH_!"

_THUD._

Donaar rolled over, vaguely aware that Kevin had wrapped around something thin -- a warm pole of some sort? -- and tossed it away. Since his blankets still rested comfortably over his shoulders, Donaar's half-awake mind did not judge this event worth waking up for.

"Is _that_ how you want to play this?" the voice hissed. Angry. Reminded him too much of Kamit.

"Nhggghhh. Go away," he mumbled, covering his head with one of his many pillows.

He felt Kevin move again, swatting back and forth, impacting with…something. There were grunting sounds, increasingly frustrated. Donaar growled in annoyance when Kevin stole the pillow covering his eyes and used it to hit something. A shriek of rage and a tearing sound followed. Feathers drifted down onto Donaar's snoot. He inhaled one by accident.

Hacking and spitting, Donaar sat up, coming to furious consciousness. "What's it take to get some sleep around here?" he bellowed, tossing his blankets and covers about as he thrashed toward the edge of his bed. "Kevin! Kevin, we've talked about this, buddy. You can't just go…Oh."

Through a curtain of loose feathers he saw a disheveled drow, tiny dagger drawn, with murder in her expression. Her eyes darted from him to Kevin and back again.

"Whoa, lady, if you're looking for whatsisface…uh…Triss? He's a couple doors down," he waved his claw in one direction, then another. "I mean, somewhere. Pretty sure they gave him a room. Have you tried the East Wing? Maybe the basement? I think we have a basement."

"I'm not here to play games with you," the drow snarled, lunging forward with her daggers. Donaar rolled to the other side of the bed. "I am _here,_ " she snarled, swiping through a curtain as he moved past one of the bedposts, "to _threaten_ you!" Another lunge. Kevin tossed a second pillow into her way. She shredded it with a flurry of her blades and an explosion of feathers.

"Hey! I liked that pillow!" Donaar protested. "Listen lady, I don't know who you are, but you better **_COOL OUT_**!" he shouted in his best big boy voice.

It had the desired effect. Nobody could resist the power of the big boy voice. The drow stood on his bed, breathing heavily, feathers stuck in her white hair and on her dark clothing. She looked around, dazed, and slowly put her daggers away. Kevin patted the edge of the bed, inviting her to sit. Too soft-hearted, that guy. Honestly, Donaar felt standing probably gave him an advantage, but once she sat, standing felt awkward. He plonked down next to her, almost knocking her over.

"Okay, first of all, who are you, and why are you in my room?" he demanded.

"I'm…Thedral," she replied in a distant voice. She stared at his face, weird hairy eyebrows rising like twin fuzzy caterpillars crawling up her forehead. _Gross._ "I…came here to…scare you. But I wouldn't have hurt you, Donaar, not much at least. I _swear._ You're my _friend._ " Her eyes got real big and watery then. "I've never had a friend before," she said, voice strained. "It feels… _weird._ "

Okay, standing felt a little less awkward now. He got up and moved a few steps away. Kevin patted her hand while his back was turned. Traitor.

"Yeah, I'm a nice guy, lots of people like me. _Anyway_ , why did you want to scare me?" he asked. "Not that you could have. I'm super brave."

Thedral looked nervously over her shoulder. "I normally wouldn't tell you this, but…I can trust you, right? I mean, of course I can, I _know_ I can…" The caterpillar brows came down again in a squishy expression. "This is _so weird,"_ she repeated, shaking her head. "Are you…are you feeling this?" she asked him.

"Sure," he said. "You were saying…?"

"I thought you would hurt my brother," she told him.

"Your brother? Look, lady, I don't even _know_ your brother. Why would I wanna hurt him?"

She laughed, tossing a pillow at him. Kevin caught it and tossed it back. "Oh, Donaar, such a joker. That must be why I like you," Thedral said. "Of course you know Thriss. You're gonna _marry_ him after all."

"Wait. He has a sister? Oh man, you're supposed to do some rite with me. _Ugh,_ is that why you're here? I thought I'd gotten out of that."

"Rite? Oh, the thing he's doing with Kamit and Pran right now. No, I don't care about that. I just…don't want Thriss to get hurt is all. He's…well, he's a _boy._ You know how fragile they are…" she looked him up and down, eyes narrowed to slits. "Okay, maybe _you_ don't know, but you're different. All…strong and stuff."

"True," he replied, preening a little.

"Thriss is…not like you. He's not like anybody. And I'm…I'm scared," she drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them until she formed a compact ball of blue and black shadow, perched on the edge of his bed. She looked…small.

"So?" Donaar kinda hoped they could go back to talking about how great he was.

"He doesn't _fit_ the way he's supposed to, and mom…she _hates_ him. I'm…I think I'm supposed to hate him too, like she does, but I can't. Does that make me weak?" When she looked at him, she seemed so lost. Donaar thought of Nase for some reason. How would his brother respond?

"…no? Maybe that…makes you special?" Yeah, Donaar was pretty sure Nase would say that.

Thedral only sighed. "Nobody _wants_ people who are special. That's just another word for _problem_."

"Ugh, tell me about it! People never appreciate me either," Donaar said.

"That's stupid. You're strong, and capable, and a royal. They should respect your station!" Thedral said. You know, this drow lady might be okay after all? She bared her teeth. "I feel like…like I should…should _stab_ anybody that doesn't like you. Stab them _a lot._ Is that normal? Is that a normal friend thing?"

Then again, maybe she was a crazy person.

"Please don't stab anybody," he said. Then thought about it. "Okay, I mean, you could stab Kamit _a little._ But only if she's being mean to me. Which is all the time."

Thedral stood, drawing her blades. "Of course! That'll solve _everything._ Kill her, end the rivalry, save Thriss, everybody's happy. You're a genius, Donaar."

"Whoa! I mean, I _am_ a genius, but don't kill Kamit! What are you, some kind of assassin or something?"

Thedral tilted her head back and laughed. "Donaar, you're hilarious. I'm so glad we're friends. This is…this is the best talk I've ever had." She paused. "This is the _only_ talk I've ever had. We should do this _all the time!"_

"Not happening," he told her.

She backed up, ducking into a series of nervous bows. "Right. Of course. That was stupid, sorry, I didn't mean to make you mad. _Please_ don't let Kamit hurt my brother."

"Why would she?"

"Doesn't she want to take him from you?"

"Uh, no? You've got some weird ideas lady," Donaar said, crossing his arms.

"But…the bet. She talked about a bet…?" Thedral seemed increasingly disoriented, shaking her head. She clutched at the bedpost.

"Oh, that? She thinks I'm gonna back out of the marriage--"

"No! You can't!" Thedral's voice took on a desperate edge. "This is his _only chance._ I have to prove to her that he has value or she'll _kill him!"_

"It always comes back to killing with you. Seriously, look at some other options," Donaar huffed.

"Like what?"

"I dunno! If stuff's so bad at home, then why not…go somewhere else? Run away. Go live in a commoner village. With normal people. People who won't…judge you." Donaar stared into the middle distance a moment, a hazy image of another life passing his eyes. He cleared his throat. "I mean him. We're definitely talking about your brother right now."

Thedral considered it a moment, then shook her head. "Mother would send people after him. He'd never survive up here on his own, not without protection. I can't spend my whole life following him around. My House _needs_ me. I have responsibilities…" She met his eyes, expression intense. "Donaar, since we're friends, can I ask you a favor?"

"I mean…you can _ask…"_

"You don't have to love Thriss, but…can you at least protect him? Like I would?"

He shrugged. "That doesn't sound too hard. Sure, I guess."

"Thank you," she bowed low, and unlike when the servants did it, it felt…like maybe he'd _earned_ that bow, somehow. Which was great, since he hadn't even done anything.

"Okay. I'm kinda tired of this conversation now, so go find a closet and, I dunno, fall asleep I guess," he told her.

"Absolutely! Happy to do it! Right away!" Thedral replied. He expected her to go to the door, but instead she yanked on a candlestick by the fireplace and a panel popped open in the wall. She paused, framed in shadows. "Hey Donaar, I know we're friends, but are we…best friends?"

"…No."

"Right, of course. Stupid," she shook her head again and stepped through the secret doorway. Then turned and gave him a tiny wave. "…but seriously. We're best friends."

_Clunk._ The panel closed.

"No we're not!" he shouted at the empty room, but heard no reply. Despite his annoyance, the room felt…almost lonely with her gone. He yanked at the curtain, wincing as sunshine flooded the room. Out on the green, a massive white tent glowed under the noonday sun. Looks like Pran and Kamit were still at the Galadaeros Rite with Thriss. They must really be giving him a hard time. He imagined Thriss, all small and tiny, going up against Kamit. Something about the image made him feel…guilty almost.

The tent flap parted and a cleric of Vars Melis came out, chatting with Pran. Kamit followed shortly after, holding her nose. Both of them looked unscathed. Obviously everything went fine and Thedral worried for nothing. He found himself unable to leave the window, waiting for Thriss to come out. Donaar shifted from foot to foot as the seconds stretched on. At last the tent flap parted and the castle seneschal -- Donaar searched for the guy's name in his head. Bob or something? -- emerged with an umbrella. At his side, wobbling on his feet, walked Thriss.

Dried blood caked his face, more red and brown than blue. The cleric might have healed Thriss' wounds, but that didn't erase their evidence. Slashes in the side and chest of the tunic made the garment hang oddly on his thin frame. Mud caked his shoulder and bits of grass stuck out at odd angles from his hair, the pale white strands muddled and filthy. The drow seemed dazed, occasionally stumbling.

A strange protective urge welled up inside Donaar. Not that he cared about this drow weirdo, or anything, but he knew what Pran and Kamit could be like. At least Donaar was big and strong, he could take it, but Thriss…like Thedral said, Thriss wasn't like anybody else. Which…like Donaar, made him special.

In a lame, weak and squishy way.

"Sure, I can look out for him," he said. "Shouldn't be too hard."


	5. Wrong Ideas

_~ DONAAR ~_

 "I think Thriss has the wrong idea about dragonborn romance," Pran said.

Kamit snorted and her armor creaked as it shifted. The elder sister stood at her usual position by the mantle, one elbow resting next to polished antiquities, body angled so she could loom over the rest of them and keep her eye on the door. Pran sprawled on the fainting couch, tail flicking back and forth in agitation.

" _That's_ what you're worried about?" Kamit asked, bemused. Pran sat up to glare at her.

"He thinks somebody is going to skin him! It's _gross,_ " she flopped back down and stared at the ceiling. " _Jarlaxle_ never thought _Ilnezhara_ would skin him," she sighed.

Kamit leaned over Pran, hands on her hips. "You do understand that book of yours is fictional, right?"

Pran stuck out her tongue. "Based on a _true story._ "

Declining further comment, Kamit began pacing, her heavy footfalls rattling the Glimmer pieces. Kevin caught a pawn as it fell off the board, handing it to Nase. The eldest Blit'zen returned it to its proper place before using his Cleric to take Donaar's Battlement.

"Well, maybe Jarlaxle was a different kind of drow?" Nase suggested, frowning as one of Donaar's copper pawns came forward to topple his black Cleric.

"Oh, Thriss is _different_ all right," Kamit snapped. "Apparently he's a heretic! A…what did he call it?"

"Kill hill," Pran supplied. "But, I mean, can you blame him? Spiders are creepy." She shared a look with Donaar and they both squirmed at the shared memory of cobweb curtains and hundreds -- no, _thousands_ \-- of swarming, crawling, hairy bodies. _Ugh. Spiders._

"Not the point, Pran," Schlagur said, steps heavy and dragging as he emerged from the library stacks. Pran jumped with a squeak.

"Spiders aren't the only creepy thing here," she grumbled as he shoved her to make room for himself. Schlagur didn't reply, only reached for the bottle of dragon's breath brandy.

" _Vars,_ Schlagy, the day's barely started," Kamit chastised, watching him down the drink and press the cool glass against his temple.

"For you, maybe," he groaned.

"Still haven't caught that drow spy?" Pran asked, relishing the rare sight of Schlagur out of sorts.

"Oh, it's only a matter of time," Schlagur growled, with the slight bubble of acid in the back of his throat. "But I'd keep an eye on your things. I'm pretty sure our uninvited drow guest went through each of our rooms. I'm setting traps tomorrow..." He glanced at the morning sunshine beaming through the windows and sighed.  "I mean, _today._ "

Donaar picked up his Paladin. Then set it back down, finger trailing over the carving as the image of Thedral ran through his mind.

_Are we…best friends?_

"They won't kill her though, right? The traps I mean?" he asked.

Schlagur raised a dour brow as he went to refill his glass. "Her? What makes you think this spy is female?"

"Makes sense," Pran said. "My books say drow women are in charge of all the important stuff. You're always telling me how valuable _intelligence_ is," She shoved Schlagur's shoulder, spilling his drink. "Maybe I should take _your_ job. I bet _I_ could catch the spy."

"Be my guest," Schlagur snapped, flicking brandy off his fingers. "Perhaps you can tempt _her_ out with one of your trashy romance novels. Or those cheese boards you're so fond of."

"You're thinking of mice, dummy," Pran replied. "No wonder you're having such trouble."

"All of you are missing the point!" Kamit slammed her fist on the mantle. "The whole reason we pursued this was to counter to Tiamat. Now we find out he doesn't even worship Lolth! What good is that? We should call this ridiculous farce off."

"No!" Donaar exclaimed. As one, his siblings turned to study him.

"Since when are you so invested in this courtship?" Kamit asked.

"Since _always,_ " Donaar replied, defensive. "I just…don't want you winning the bet, is all. Two days, right? Well, in an hour, that's what it'll be. Yeah, that's right, the guilt is all over your face!" Donaar declared, pointing an accusing claw at Kamit. "I'm onto your game!"

"That is not - !" Kamit sputtered, back frills flaring.

Pran cut her off with a knowing, "OOooohhhh, so _that's_ how it is. Nice try, Kami!"

"Shut up, Pran! I am _trying_ to talk matters of _important political alliance!"_ Kamit hissed.

"Even if he's not a follower of Lolth, that doesn't mean there's no value in an Underdark ally," Nase said. He moved his Royal Consort forward. Donaar pushed his own, the little blue bauble, to counter.

"Check," Donaar said. Nase huffed, moving his piece back.

“There’s also Pran’s engagement to Shimmerscale,” Schlagur reminded them. “Two fronts to this war.”

Pran draped a dramatic hand over her brow. “Don’t remind me…” she moaned.

"Personally, I'm kinda glad the Lolth angle fell through. I don't like the idea of fighting evil magic with _more_ evil magic," Nase continued. "But we could set up trade agreements with the drow. Maybe intelligence gathering, if their spies are so good?”

Schlagur gave only a grudging sneer in reply.

"Besides," Donaar said, and moved his Paladin forward in concert with the Royal Consort, "If we're better players, we don't need to cheat…Checkmate, Nase."

Nase sighed, but when he knocked his Royal over, he did so with a smile. "Someday, I'm gonna win a game against you," he said.

"Sorry buddy," Donaar replied, "But I never lose."

* * *

_~ THRISS ~_

"I think dragonborn have the wrong idea about drow alliances," Thriss remarked to the slightly deeper shadow in the corner of his room. Thedral only grunted at him, peeling herself from her hiding place and sprawling sullenly on the too-large bed. Ever since he’d returned from facing Donaar's sisters yesterday, Thedral had seemed unusually terse.

Thriss turned another page, tilting the book on its side. The paper folded out into an obscene spread. He blinked.

"…also about drow anatomy. You said _Kamit_ had this?"

"Mnf," Thedral confirmed with a slightly more affirmative huff. "I grabbed it because I saw the Ilnezhara name. Same as one of the rites on that list?" She glanced over at the drawing he studied with horrified fascination. "Didn't know about the…" her cheeks glowed a pale lavender, " _stuff_."

Thriss squinted at the hand-painted, lovingly rendered illustration.

"Are those….tentacles?" he mused, both aghast and entertained.

Thedral reached over and snapped _The Shadow in Her Sheets_ shut.

"What did you learn at that Galadaeros rite?" she asked.

His thoughts ran in skittering trails like water droplets down a stalactite. He froze his features, careful to give nothing away.

_The other families were right about me all along? I don't worship Lloth and somehow am the last to know? There might be more to this surprise surface trip than you're saying?_

_There is a symbol under the fabric of the world and it is waiting for me?_

"Little that would interest you," he replied, "Except Pran serves as subordinate sibling to Nase, not Kamit."

"Nase. _Nase?_ But he's a _boy,"_ Thedral stared at him with skepticism bordering on outrage. "What's your evidence?"

"She indicated he would kill her if she disobeyed him," he told her.

Thedral scoffed. "You must have misunderstood."

He inclined his head. "Of course. And what did you learn of the bet?"

She tapped her boot against the side of the bed and looked away. "I don't think you're at risk. I interrogated Donaar. Their bet was about whether he'd break off the engagement or not. I… _convinced_ him not to."

"You are very invested in this working out," Thriss said.

"I will _not_ return a failure!" she snapped. "And you will _not_ betray the faith the Matron Mother has shown --"

A bitter laugh, devoid of amusement, escaped him. He shook his head.

"Thedral…does the Matron Mother even know I'm here? Or that you are?"

His sister sat with the unmoving gravity of a stone. He waited.

"She knows…that I am _taking care_ of you. That you won't be a _problem_ anymore."

He nodded slowly, watching his fingers as they twisted of their own accord, broadcasting half-formed feelings.

"Who proposed this alliance then? The Jinaari queen, or you?" he asked at last.

"I may have…intercepted some mail."

"Ah. These dragonborn must be truly desperate to vanquish their Tiamat enemies." His knee began to bounce as a sardonic, furious smile spread across his face. "Tell me, honored sister, once I am wed and they ask me to call up Rah'Uuthli armies and the wrath of the goddess, how am I to deliver? When will I become as expendable to _them_ as I am to _Mother_?"

"Donaar promised!" the words burst out of Thedral. She covered her mouth, looking as though she might vomit up even more unbelievable sentiments.

" _You_ trust the word of a _boy_?" Thriss asked.

She stood, keeping her back to him, her hands carefully guarded. "Don't underestimate him. His voice can warp minds. I saw him use it on…on a servant." Her ear twitched as she clenched her jaw. "He's capable of more than we know."

"And he'd bring this power to bear in _my_ defense?" Thriss studied her back intently, watching the shoulders tense and rise towards her ears.

"Yes. _No._ I…" A sigh. Her shoulders slumped and she rested her head against the wall. "I want to… _believe_ he would."

Perhaps sunlight drove drow mad. This would explain a great deal of the last two days for both of them.

"I _hate_ him," she growled. That, at least, sounded a little more like her. "Don't trust him, Thriss. Not for an _instant._ "

"Never," he replied.


	6. Rite of Ilnezhara

_~ DONAAR ~_

"Ilnezhara, though a noble copper dragon, disguised herself as a mortal. Not even as a dragonborn, but a lowly human!" Kamit paused, mouth partially open as she looked at Thriss with a ripple of her plates.

"Uh…not that other races are lesser, of course," she said to him.

"Oh, it's fine, no humans here to offend," Thriss replied. "We all know there is a hierarchy to such things and who is at the top of it, of course." He tipped his head and spread his hands wide in front of him, palms up.

"Of…course…" Kamit replied, with a glance at Donaar. Donaar yawned. Why did these rites always have to start so early? Why not a brunch rite? Or a dessert rite? Yeah, a dessert rite, with sundaes…

Kamit started talking some more, describing how Ilnezhara disguised herself as a shopkeeper and blah blah blah did human stuff for a while and whatever. He fidgeted and looked over at Pran, who stood in a line with Schlagy and Nase by the grand doors exiting the palace. No luck, Pran didn't meet his eyes, too busy swooning over the sappy romance. Schlagy seemed even twitchier than usual, looking at the walls around them with blood-shot eyes. Nase at least noticed Donaar, giving him a quick wink, but dipped his head Kamit's direction.

Well, maybe he would pay a little more attention to Kamit's story. It _was_ about a dragon, after all.

"And so," Kamit droned, "as Ilnezhara elevated base commerce, we honor her in our courtship rites by engaging in an exchange of gifts and --"

_BOOMF!_

The plaster in the wall just behind Kamit's head cracked.

"Good heavens!" cried the seneschal. "Was that an _explosion?_ These walls date back to --"

"Ha! Got you this time!" Schlagur shouted, triumphant, and broke formation to sprint to a decorative sconce just under the crack. He yanked the neck of the dragon carving and Donaar blinked as a doorway materialized, smoke pouring out of it. Schlagur shoved his snoot in.

There was a quiet _pop_ and Schlagur reeled back, his mouth, nose, and eyes enveloped in a pale white substance. Pran rushed forward to pull the material off Schlagur's face, but shrieked when she touched it.

"UGH! It's webs! Oh, gross, get it off, _get it off!"_ she wiped her hands frantically on her skirt as Schlagur continued to flail.

"Of for - " Kamit huffed. She pulled out her blade and shoved Schlagur against the wall with her forearm. "Stop moving or I'll cut you, idiot!" she snapped. Schlagur stilled, his claws balled into fists. Donaar felt sick satisfaction at seeing Kamit bully somebody else for a change.

Carefully, she pressed her blade into the mass of pale, sticky strands, opening a hole over his mouth. Schlagur sucked in a gust of air through the tiny gap and Kamit pulled away with an annoyed grunt.

A glob of webbing clung to her blade, dulling its edge. She angrily scraped it against the wall, eliciting a pained protest from the seneschal by the door. Instead of coming off the blade, the glob clung to the surface of both wall and sword, binding them together. "My Lady," the seneschal said, "That fresco is a national treas --"

Kamit heaved at the hilt once, twice, and with a tearing of plaster the sword came away, webbing, wall, and all. The seneschal whimpered and leaned against the door for support. Donaar suppressed a snicker and Kamit shot him a look of pure acid, stomping his way.

He braced for a fight out of reflex, but she looked right past him, turning the full force of her fury at Thriss instead. Donaar found himself, purely by accident, standing defensively between them.

"What is this?" she shouted, waving the blade with its collection of goo and plaster.

Of all of them, Thriss seemed the least impacted by the odd events. Donaar didn't think he'd moved this whole time. His eyes remained downcast, his mouth fixed in the same smile. _Weird._

"A sticky chemical compound, I believe," Thriss told Kamit, with the same quiet tones he'd used to request Nase pass the salt this morning at breakfast. It did nothing to calm Donaar's elder sister.

"How do I get it off?" She spat, taking another step forward, the acid sacks beneath her frills ballooning with rage. Donaar found his foot shifting to interpose himself further, Kevin twisting forward in case he needed to shove Thriss out of the way.

Just instinct, really.

This was definitely an instinctive reaction.

And you know what, who could blame him? Thriss was this tiny squishy drow guy and here's Kamit all armored up with a sword in a totally different weight class. Donaar wasn't even sure Thriss weighed enough to qualify for _any_ weight class. And none of that was fair.

Gotta stick up for the little guy, you know?

And boy, did this drow need the help, because he didn't even notice Kamit's anger. Just kept on smiling, standing there like a blue lump of glass and just as fragile.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a touch of candle flame will clear it with ease. If not, there are mixtures I could advise to dissolve it, though they might prove a little caustic," Thriss said, still staring at the floor, his hands and their bajillion extra unnecessary fingers making twitchy little flourishes.

"I have to _burn_ my _clothes?_ " Pran squawked, both hands now stuck to her garment.

"Hrmph," Kamit snorted, and snapped her claws at the wilting seneschal. "Get me a torch! _NOW!_ " The seneschal sprinted down the hall.

"Uh, guys?" Nase said from where he crouched in the open doorway of the secret passage. "There's a note here." He stood, holding a tiny scrap of paper, and squinted at it. "At least, I think it's a note. No idea what language it is."

Thriss' ears twitched and for the first time the drow looked up, moving out from behind Donaar to read over Nase's shoulder.

"Ah! It says, ' _You call that a trap?_ '" Thriss told them. Then he pointed at something on the note. "This ideogram indicates the question is intended to mock the recipient," he added in a helpful tone.

The webbing remained too tightly wrapped about Schlagur's snoot for him to speak, but he gave an enraged gurgle and slammed his fist into the already damaged wall just as the seneschal returned with a burning torch. A carefully sculpted bit of pargeting broke off and shattered on the floor. Kamit snatched the torch out of the seneschal's hand as the servant wobbled in a near faint.

Grumbling to herself, she applied the flame to the glue on the blade, watching it curl, blacken, and disintegrate. Kamit opened her mouth and Donaar recognized the look of an incoming lecture.

He cut it off with a loud clap of his hands. "Well, looks like you guys got what you need!" He put his hand on Thriss' back. For a brief second the other man stiffened at his touch, then went limp, allowing himself be propelled forward. "We're just gonna head out. Big important rite stuff to do."

"Wait just a minute -- !" Kamit began, but Nase stalled her with an outstretched hand.

"Sounds good. You two have fun," Nase said, meeting Kamit's outraged gaze with a pointed stare of his own. "We'll clean up here. Besides, we gotta get ready for the platinum delegation arriving tomorrow, _right Pran_?"

Pran heaved a sigh from where she sat, dejected, on the floor. She regarded her hands, now tightly tangled in the fabric of her skirt. "I guess so."

"Great! Later guys!" Donaar said, yanking on the door as Thriss hastily drew up the hood of his cloak and pulled on gloves to cover his hands. Without a glance back, Donaar grabbed the drow's wiry arm, hauling him though the exit and into the awaiting carriage.

Thriss settled himself in the corner of one of the plush seats, long legs dangling, hardly taking up a quarter of the space. Donaar flung himself on the opposite side in a comfortable sprawl and Kevin pulled the door shut behind him. With a knock against the driver's wall, Donaar signaled they were ready to depart. Thriss caught himself against the curtained window as the carriage lurched, limbs spread to brace himself.

"Geez, first carriage ride?" Donaar asked.

"Something like that," Thriss replied, and drew his legs up to perch like a hooded gargoyle in the corner.

It was darker inside than Donaar was used to. Hotter too. Somebody had closed everything up to keep the sunlight out. They must have shut the windows as well. Donaar leaned back into the soft, downy pillows and wondered if he should open them. His mind felt sluggish and content in the heat and it was _so_ early…

Donaar awakened with a snort as the carriage jolted, coming to a halt. He wiped a smear of drool off his cheek and saw Thriss still clinging to the cushions in the corner, staring at him. Did the guy even blink? _Creepy._ Donaar lurched up, sitting up straight, but Thriss didn't react. Wow. _Rude_. It was one thing to be watched while he was sleeping, but to be _ignored?_

"Hey. _Hey,"_ he said, snapping his fingers.

Thriss inhaled and glanced up to meet his eyes.

"Hmm?" the drow replied, eyes still distant. A faint sour odor rose from him. Donaar's first instinct was to gag, but…it wasn't too terrible. Kinda…mammalian probably? However they smelled. Musky? Musty? Like something damp, at any rate.

"We're here," he said, and opened the door. A breeze of cooler air washed in and he saw Thriss lean into it, closing his eyes. Guess Donaar should have opened the window after all? How was he supposed to know he'd fall asleep? And it wasn't like Thriss didn't have hands of his own to open a latch.

Donaar stood and Thriss followed suit, stumbling when Donaar exited the carriage and the floorboards rocked back with the sudden change in weight. Donaar caught his hand and steadied him as he stepped down. In the sunlight a sheen of moisture stood out on the drow's skin, before the hood got pulled farther over his face. Donaar wasn't sure how Thriss was going to move around in the market like that. Could he even see?

They stood in awkward silence as the dragonborn waited for Thriss to remove his hand from Donaar's grasp.

"Uh. What you wanna see first?" Donaar asked.

Thriss gingerly lifted the fabric over his face, squinted, and dropped it back down.

"Wherever you like is fine," the drow said, and clutched Donaar's hand a little tighter.

Okay, yeah, he _definitely_ couldn't see anything. This was so dumb.

"Isn't it hot under all that stuff?" Donaar asked, gesturing at the dark clothes and heavy cloak. He watched a droplet of liquid drip from the tip of Thriss' nose. "What's the point of showing you the sights if you can't even see them?" Donaar grumbled, taking a step forward. Thriss followed him at a slight delay, like a fishing lure bobbing on a string.

"I am sure I will be _very_ impressed by your _significant_ rocks and _important_ buildings," Thriss replied. Then quickly added, "And as I told you before, there is nothing wrong with my eyes."

"All right. Suit yourself," Donaar said, yanking his hand out of the drow's grip. He stomped away, intending to let Thriss sort things out on his own, but felt Kevin loop around Thriss' grasping fingers and lead him forward at a stumbling walk.

 _Way_ too soft-hearted, that Kevin.

People in the market stopped and stared as they passed, no doubt in awe of the royalty that walked in their midst. Thriss' grip on Kevin became tighter as they waded deeper into the crowds. This area of town was a mix of both dragonborn and other races. Elves, halflings, humans, and gnomes all set up stalls and traveling carts to sell their wares. When the sun set they'd pack up and head to their homes in the lower quarters, of course, but for now enjoyed the honor of mingling with their betters. Donaar being the best of all.

"Oh my dear, you're far from home," said a woman's voice, wobbly with age, behind him. Thriss murmured something in response and she laughed. "Not quite adjusted to the sun yet, hmm? You'll get heat stroke in a get-up like that."

" _Thank_ you," Donaar said, exasperated. "I _tried_ to tell him, but --" He turned quickly, whipping Kevin out of Thriss' grasp and accidentally sending the drow stumbling into his arms. Donaar caught him on reflex. Holding him, he discovered the thin shoulders, which looked so delicate compared to Donaar's broad chest, felt surprisingly solid. The plates at the back of his head fluttered and Donaar abruptly spun Thriss around to face forward, bodily hoisting the drow and setting him solidly back on his feet.

It was probably just the bulk from all those layers.

He heard a chuckle and looked down -- _waaaaaay_ down -- to see a tiny old woman in a lavender shawl looking up at him. There was a knowing glint in her eyes. He felt his plates flutter again and her grin widened.

"My my, aren't you two _adorable_ ," she said. "Newly weds?"

"Engaged," Thriss said shortly, straightening with jerky motions. "And my clothes are fine, _Halfling._ "

Her eyes narrowed to thin slits and she squared her jaw. The shadows cast by the tent over her stall suddenly seemed thick as night.

"Say again, _boy,"_ she replied flatly. Even Donaar took a step back at the menace in her voice. "My old ears didn't hear you."

Thriss swallowed, hinging at the waist in a deep bow, hands in constant motion. "F-forgive me, Grand Matron, I spoke thoughtlessly. I beg you overlook this grave error."

The wrinkles on her face gathered in a cherubic smile and she laughed brightly. Light and sound returned and Donaar released a held breath, his stomach queasy. She reached up to Thriss' face, held in such a low bow that it nearly came level with her own, and pinched his cheek with vigor. He squeaked.

"Like I said. _Adorable_." She released the skin of his face and took him by the hand, dragging him forward into the tent. Thriss turned a panicked look Donaar's direction, but the dragonborn could only shrug and follow.

Temporary racks and shelves covered with clothing filled the space. Gauzy silks hung from the central tent poles, piles of hats lay splayed out in baskets, and loose shirts hung on wire hooks.

"Now, in my younger years I knew a drow much like you," the old woman said as she led them past a small swarm of bustling halflings fetching items or taking measurements for customers. "Fresh up from the Underdark, all 'yes Matron' and 'no Matron' and boiling under a thousand layers of spider silk just to hide from the sun. Once passed out on my front porch in the height of summer!"

At the back of the tent a small standing screen stood next to a tall mirror. She pulled out a folding stool, patting it with a wink at Donaar. "Front row seat," she said, before positioning Thriss directly in front of his reflection. The drow seemed utterly drained of resistance, even as she clambered up a small ladder and undid his cloak. With a _tsk_ she looked him up and down, carefully bundling the heavy fabric under one sinewy arm.

"Just look at you. Soaked through with sweat." At a snap of her fingers, every halfling in earshot stopped what they were doing to look at her. Customers turned in confusion as all sound ceased within the tent.

"Vern, get these young men some water, would you?" she called out in a sweet tone.

"Of course, Grandmother!" A freckled halfling with oversized ears replied, and dashed off. Business resumed, accompanied by a few nervous laughs from unsettled customers.

"My young drow friend was stubborn, but you won't be, will you sweetie?" she asked, looking at Thriss with a sharp smile as she stood on the top rung of the ladder, her worn and wrinkled face even with his youthful blue one. The drow ducked his head.

"No, Grand Matron," he replied meekly.

She laughed. "Oh, hun, call me Rosie. I'm no Grand Matron." She continued chuckling to herself as she hopped off the ladder, landing with a spry vigor that belied her age. "Vern'll be along in a moment with that water. You stay put until I get back." She disappeared into the racks of clothes, still shaking her head. "Grand Matron…ha!"

Vern arrived, face flushed and gulping air, balancing a tray with a pitcher of water and two glasses. He'd even procured some ice and a few slices of lemon. With shaking hand he poured them each a glass and departed. Thriss waited until Donaar took a swig before he sipped, swallowed, and promptly downed the glass in a few desperate gulps, pouring himself another.

"You'll make yourself sick that way," Rosie said as she popped back into view. Thriss choked and sputtered. She thumped him on the back as he coughed. "Easy does it. You're a jumpy one, huh? Now, stand up, I have things for you." She held out a stack of cardboard boxes to him. "You seem to prefer darker colors, but these fabrics will be far more breathable. Trust me, you'll feel much better."

Thriss obediently opened the first box, taking out a thin linen shirt of deep indigo and pants dyed charcoal gray.

Rosie made shooing motions toward the standing screen. "Go on then! Try it on."

Thriss looked to Donaar with an expression the dragonborn couldn't begin to read. Donaar just took another swig of the lemon water. "Don't look at me, you've been wet and smelly all morning."

With a sigh the drow gathered up the box and retreated past the screen. Already bored, Donaar began pawing through the other boxes. "What else you got in here?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," Rosie replied airily. "A few day-to-day styles, something for special occasions, and…"

Donaar choked as he opened a box that contained a garment constructed out of lace and straps and little else.

"Something for _very_ special occasions," she finished with a leer, leaning in. "So! Where are you going for the honeymoon?"

Donaar slammed the lid back on the box, crushing it. Thriss leaned out from behind the screen, half dressed.

"What is it?" he asked.

" _Put a shirt on,"_ Donaar snapped, shoving the box back into Rosie's hands. Thriss disappeared once more. "We won't be needing this, Grandmother," Donaar huffed.

She tsked again. "If you say so," Rosie replied. "Why don't you pick out a hat for him then?" She gestured to the basket in the corner. Donaar stomped away, desperately trying to banish visions of Thriss posing in lace…

…and straps

...and little else.

* * *

 ~ THRISS ~

Thriss had to admit the terrifying tiny Grand Matron knew her business. He did feel a lot better in these surface clothes, which allowed the cooler breezes to reach his skin while shielding him from the hateful rays of the sun. Donaar ended up buying the entire lot (minus the mystery item he refused to talk about) in addition to a set of colored spectacles and an enormous, wide brimmed hat. The floppy headgear was constructed of a woven mesh dyed copper-orange, much like the dragonborn's scales, with a ribbon of glowing-mushroom green, much like the dragonborn's eyes.

From a purely aesthetic point of view, Thriss supposed those eyes were rather pretty and unusual. The complete opposite of a drow's red glare. Clear, bright, and, Thriss increasingly believed to his mounting horror, dangerously sincere.

Yes, Thriss feared this poor, unfortunate youth he found himself engaged to might, in fact, be distressingly and disturbingly free of subterfuge. How Donaar survived to a marriageable age presented itself as one of the great mysteries of the universe. Perhaps this dragonborn found himself unusually blessed by the dragon god his people prayed to? Thriss could find no other reasonable explanation. Donaar's feeble attempts at guile were so blatantly transparent he needn't have bothered, and fortunately for the Art of Deceit the Prince rarely did. Why his siblings coddled such failings -- nay, even _rewarded_ them, as Nase did in aiding their escape from Kamit's wrath -- confounded Thriss.

Perhaps the sun turned all it touched to madness and folly.

Surely it warped Thriss' sensibilities, because when Donaar plonked the mass of dyed reeds and ribbon on his head and Thriss saw himself in the mirror, rather than feeling concern at how clear a target such loud colors painted for lurking assassins, he felt….

Special.

And almost as pretty as Donaar's eyes.

The Surface would be the death of Thriss, that much was certain.

Donaar paid for the purchases and gave instructions for their delivery to the palace, along with the discarded spider silk cloak and clothes. Protected by spectacles and sunhat, Thriss finally took in the colorful, maddening bustle of the marketplace. For a breathless second the new sights and sounds filled him with exhilaration, but a nagging worry intruded on his appreciation of the vibrant colors, giggling children at play, and exuberant merchants hawking their wares. An absence, something vital to any individual of status, which set off every internal alarm he possessed.

No matter how he searched, he found no sign of their escort.

Perhaps that dragonborn over there, staring at them so brazenly, acted as an incognito bodyguard? Or that one by the stalls of smoke and intriguing smells, buying a strange lump on a stick?

"Good idea," Donaar said, following Thriss' gaze. "I'm hungry."

"Where are the guards?" Thriss asked, trailing in Donaar's wake as the Prince tromped over to the food stand.

"What guards?" Donaar replied, after ordering five -- oh wait, no, six -- deep fried geckos with extra frosting.

"For your person. Your retinue. Your…" Thriss waved his hands helplessly, indicating the obvious, " _Your guards."_

Donaar shrugged. "Don't need 'em. It's not like anybody'd try to hurt me. Everybody loves me!"

The mystery of Donaar's survival only deepened. Thriss had no idea Vars Melis exerted such awesome power. How had he never heard of him before? Could this ancient dragon be the source of the strange symbol he saw? The god beneath the earth, binding the world together?

"Do you carry a token of Vars Melis?" Thriss asked.

Donaar balked. "Wow, that's kinda personal. Geez. Of course I do."

"May I see it?"

"Sure, I guess," Donaar reached inside the glimmering tunic he wore, pulling a medallion from an inside breast pocket. Thriss suppressed a moue of disappointment. This symbol did not squirm and writhe in his vision, nor defy his every attempt to contemplate it, nor vex him with its refusal to linger in his mind.

How sad, to want for nothing.

"You wanna convert to Vars or something?" Donaar asked. "I heard you were a heretic. Kill Hill something?"

Thriss winced and looked around with jangling nerves. Who overheard? The gnome in the frayed waistcoat? _The human with the obvious and self-indulgent wig??_ _THE BORED FOOD STALL OWNER?!?_

"Hey, buddy, you want these fried gecko or not?" drawled the shabby human in his grease-smeared apron, holding up six twisted animal forms impaled on wooden skewers, their bubbled flesh slathered in glistening white ooze.

"Don't rush me!" Donaar hollered back at his usual deafening volume and grudgingly paid the server before he snatched the six sticks. As the dragonborn and drow walked away from the stall, Donaar proffered one of the skewers. "Here. Eat it."

Thriss took the single stick, carefully gripped between finger and thumb of his gloved hands, and waited until Donaar ate one with no ill consequences before giving the charred and steaming corpse a nibble. The food couldn't compare to a marinated mushroom, but the range of textures felt quite novel. Crispy skin crackled beneath his teeth, heralding a burst of juicy, chewy flesh. A wave of savory flavors contrasted the staggering sweetness of gooey frosting. Overbearing, but oddly enjoyable. Certainly unlike anything he'd ever tried before.

Thriss ate about half of his before Donaar asked, "You gonna finish that?" The drow dutifully handed over the remainder of his portion to the endless appetite of his fiancé. Thriss might have felt annoyed, but Donaar ate with such obvious enthusiasm, free of self-consciousness and defying social norms with every eager bite, that Thriss couldn't help but find the result…almost charming.

In a rude, obnoxious, _insane_ way.

"So, what present are you getting me?" Donaar asked, sucking the last scraps of skin from the skewer and using the stick to clean his teeth.

"…the second half of my gecko doesn't count?" Thriss attempted a lame jest, hoping Donaar might be gullible enough to accept it.

"Pff, nice try dummy. I bought that, so technically it was mine to begin with," Donaar replied.

_Drat._

Buying Donaar a gift posed an insurmountable problem. Beyond the fact that Thriss had no idea what the dragonborn Prince might like, as a male he'd never been entrusted with funds. At least, not official ones. His father secreted him coins here and there, but rather than hoard them, Thriss spent every scrap of wealth he acquired on books of magical lore. No powers ever revealed themselves as a result of this study, but he kept trying anyway, hoping persistence might lead to a justification for his continued existence. For a mournful moment he thought of his secret, modest library, hidden in the floor of his sparse room, largely left behind in his whirlwind exodus from the Underdark.

Perhaps when they were wed, Donaar might permit him a few new volumes? This pleasant thought buoyed his mood briefly, until the reality of his penniless state dragged him back into the muck. Only obedient husbands earn the sufferance of their masters, as the saying went, and he could only obey the terms of the rite by giving a gift.

What did he have to give?

Only himself, which was worthless.

Perhaps he could find something to steal?

"I've yet to see anything grand enough for your glittering eminence," he said, noting how Donaar responded to the flattery. The dragonborn's chest broadened as he set his shoulders back, head tilting upward and plates fluttering as lips curled in a satisfied smile. Thriss continued, "Perhaps we should keep exploring until we find something suitably resplendent?"

"I could walk all day, doesn't matter to me!" Donaar declared. Relief settled on Thriss' shoulders, knowing he'd bought more time. Hopefully at not too high a cost.

Unfortunately, it made little difference. The baleful sun sank in the nauseating sky, casting longer shadows as the hours passed and Thriss found himself no closer to a solution. He wished Thedral was with him, knowing her skills at slight of hand far exceeded his own. He never found the right moment or the perfect trinket, always waiting too long or over-thinking his approach.

Donaar's short attention span didn't help matters, tugging Thriss along before he could martial the courage to swipe anything. They traveled deeper and deeper into the market, descending farther into the valley. The wares only diminished in quality farther down, the buildings growing closer and shabbier, and Donaar's gaze settled less and less on his surroundings. As the hateful heavens above warped into the colors of blood and bile, Donaar seemed completely distracted by something in the distance.

"You hear that?" the dragonborn asked him, and with survival instincts honed by years of close calls Thriss froze, ears taking in a deluge of sound as he attempted to sift for danger indicators. _Snippet of conversation, sizzle of cooking, clatter of merchants closing down shop, a bell tolling in the distance, strange calls of flying creatures._ Which sound held the threat? His heart tempo picked up as adrenaline flooded his system, awareness focusing down to sensory data.

"What is it?" he whispered, but either Donaar's ears failed to catch his words or the dragonborn didn't care to clarify.

Claws closed around Thriss' arm and tugged him down a steep street of badly set cobbles. Thriss skipped over potholes and lengthened his stride, staying low. He instinctively looked up to check the cavern ceiling and nearly vomited when his gaze found only endless sky. _Buildings, rooftops, focus there, watch for snipers in the windows, find the threat, assess, eliminate or extricate._

With a catch of breath he remembered the easy target his frivolous hat now posed. Tightness bordering on pain lanced through his left arm as his breathing rocketed from nervous to harried, his pulse throbbing in his neck. Madness, sun madness, that he wore such a dangerous garment for even an instant. He snatched the hat off and balled it up, clutching it to his chest. The deep red rays of the darkening sky lanced across the sensitive skin of his face, but better a burn than making it easy for their assailants to put an arrow through his unguarded head. Thankfully the sting lessened with the sun so low in the sky, but nonetheless he could scarcely afford the distraction.

Donaar maintained a remarkable calm, displaying keen focus. Eagerness, even. Perhaps his fiancé found such chases thrilling with a hunter's lust for blood sport. Thriss shivered, hoping they were predator, not prey. He glanced at the rooftops again and saw a thin figure leap between buildings, keeping pace with their rapid decent farther into the city. He latched a hand on Donaar's tail and tried to hiss a warning, but the dragonborn chose that instant to stop and Thriss bounced off the solid wall of Donaar's muscular back. Sprawling on his backside, Thriss' already unsteady stomach writhed at another glimpse of the malicious heavens, which expanded and whirled in his sight until he rolled over and gagged, trying to keep his frosted fried gecko down.

"Yeah! This gets me excited too!" Donaar exclaimed, apparently confusing Thriss' retching as a sign of enthusiasm. Gasping for air, the drow leaned his weight on one arm and swung the other wildly, pointing upward.

"There -- " he heaved, "Up -- "

"Sure, I got ya," Donaar said, and looped his tail around Thriss, hauling him more or less to his feet before dragging the stunned drow into a bombardment of noise and light.

The crash of percussion and a brazen squeal of brass horns birthed a thunderous melody set to the pluck of tense strings as a band of musicians launched into a high-energy number. Colors flashed and flickered, dazzling the eyes and confounding the senses like a hundred bursts of dancing lights. Sharp jeers cut through the music and punctuated a crush of conversation. The air hung heavy with an oppressive smoke haze, unleashed from pipes and rolled cigars. The sharp clatter of glasses and their accompanying caustic odor of fermented unknown fruits swarmed by on dark platters carried by short, harried servants who came under constant fire from patrons.

The tables sported a dizzying array of designs, some flat and felted, others containing strange wheels and magical or mechanical devices. A furious man shoved his way out of his seat and hurled down a handful of cards, his enemies sneering and laughing at his departure. At another table the clatter of dice produced a victorious bellow from one woman, trampling the groans of her victims.

Thriss clutched his hat to his chest, still hanging in the tail's grasp.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"A house for Winners," Donaar replied, and made his way toward one of the strange wheeled tables.

Thriss considered extricating himself from the tail, but found it strangely soporific to sway with Donaar's stride, securely gripped in the corded muscle. His limbs and mind relaxed, allowing the world to present itself to his senses. Gradually the hurly-burly of sights and sounds grounded itself into sensible data, intensity fading as his ears and eyes adapted to the foreign stimulus. He bobbed along, held aloft, feet occasionally brushing plush carpet, and felt…at peace. His eyes unfocused, tension sloughing off his neck and shoulders, shaky and nearly senseless with the drain of adrenaline and anxiety.

His surroundings blurred, merged, pooled into a numb buzz of distant inputs without importance. A vibration hummed, setting his fingertips tingling, ears ringing with a clarity of pitch that grew in his awareness as all else faded. Strands of red light began to pull out of the solid forms around him, ripples of intention and weight through space and time far more real than the material that transported them. An itch at his eyes set his head twisting to the left, farther, farther, answering a call he could taste in his teeth, but could not shape words to answer. Something was there. Something he needed to see, under the fabric of the world --

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Thriss blinked, eyes watering, and looked down from his suspension at a small halfling waiter with freckles and large ears.

"Do you…need to get down? I could fetch a ladder?" the waiter continued.

Thriss felt his lips part and he ran his tongue along his teeth, speech sluggishly returning. "Oh…no. I think I'm fine here," he replied. His fingertips tingled as he wiggled them, each on the edge of falling asleep.

"If you say so," the waiter replied. "Uh…can I get you something to drink? Some more water?"

Thriss cocked his head to the side, studying the halfling's features more closely. "I remember you…Vern, was it?"

"Oh! Yeah, Grandmother owns this place too, so I -- I work odd jobs around town for her. I'm sort of the fall through guy, you know?"

A glimmer of familiar worry itched up the back of his neck, fighting against the numbing pull of his suspension. "The Grand Matron -- Rosie -- is she here?"

"Maybe? She keeps her eye on a lot of places. Beestingers are a big family. If I see her, should I tell her you're here?"

"No, no," Thriss said, perhaps a touch too quick to be polite, "I'd hate to bother her."

"Yeah. Me too," Vern replied, with a shy grin. "Anyway, if you change your mind about the drink or the ladder, just give a wave."

Thriss nodded amicably and the halfling boy trotted away. The sharp strike and rattle of glass on wood drew his attention. He squirmed, trying to turn in the tail's grip. As though sensing his desire, the appendage holding him shifted, moving his body so he could look over Donaar's shoulder. The dragonborn's eyes tracked a marble circling a spinning wheel at the center of the table. Flickers of black and red numbers flashed as both slowed until finally the marble clattered, clacked, and settled into one of the wheel's slots. Donaar whooped as piles of coins were shoved his way. A sizable mound of wealth gathered about the dragonborn's elbows. Apparently in this house of Winners, Donaar held an impressive rank.

The tail set Thriss down on wobbly legs. He held onto the table's edge as he shook the pins and needles from his feet, head heavy and thoughts thick. Solid reality flickered in his eyes, exposing a second layer of sight laid out in red lines and deeper shadows. His body felt bloated with unfulfilled purpose, fingers fat as though they might split and burst like sausage skin. Donaar stacked up coins in neat rows, sparing him a glance.

"Oh, hey, forgot about you. What's up?" Donaar asked.

Before Thriss could answer, a voice snarled from across the table, "You gonna place a wager, or what?" Through unfocused gaze the drow looked up and met the eyes of a pale platinum dragonborn surrounded by a miasma of malignant shadow. Thriss' fingers convulsed, nails digging into the felt covering the table surface.

"Give me a minute! Sheesh!" Donaar growled back as he gripped a claw around Thriss' shoulder. The weight of it nearly buckled the drow's knees and he fought to stay standing as the shadow around the platinum's body pulsed, five pseudopods extending from the writhing haze, sprouting teeth, eyes, and frills. Each turned a contemptuous gaze in his direction and hissed. He felt a flash of heat and cold and the crackle of static sparks through his hair. His jaw clenched and the itch at his eyes grew in intensity, bidding him turn, turn, turn. Red lines whirled around the wheel, spinning counter to each other, one for the path of future marbles, one for the path of future wheels. A sense of impending necessity kept his eyes open wide, unblinking, as the lines vibrated like plucked strings, faster, faster, until -- !

"Red four," he whispered.

"What?" Donaar asked, leaning close. The dragonborn's snout bumped Thriss's side, disrupting the drow's tenuous hold on his balance. Thriss collapsed against Donaar, clinging to the dragonborn's neck, crushed beneath the press of this unknown god's desire. Why a color and a number on a gambling wheel mattered to such a being, he did not know. Could not string conscious thought together enough to question. His mind screamed only of the task he must fulfill, or risk splintering the insignificance of his being along those infinite thrumming strands.

"Red four," he hissed again into Donaar's ear. " _Red four."_

"Hey, buddy, I'm great at this game," The dragonborn replied, dismissive. "I don't need your h-"

"If your _pet_ is unwell, maybe you should quit," the platinum across the table sneered. "Unless you're afraid of losing?"

"I never lose," Donaar snapped. "And he's not my pet! He's my -- uh…" The dragonborn assessed Thriss, who clutched at Donaar as though he might acquire some of the dragonborn's strength through touch. "…ward? I guess?"

"Uh huh. You play this bit often? He runs a distraction so you can pull some sort of con?" The platinum leaned forward, surrounded by his own sizable pile of coin, rattling the ice in his drink. One of the waiters came by, silently laying down another. He downed that glass as well, followed by a loud belch.

"Are you calling me a cheater?" Donaar's tone fell to a low, dark rumble.

"That, or chicken. C'mon, copper, let's go. You and me. Everything we've got," the platinum slurred his words, loosely gesturing to his possessions laid out on the table. Bags of coin, a few errant gemstones, and a large square box a little over a foot wide on each side.

"You're gonna regret that when I take you to the poor house," Donaar snapped, jabbing one claw in the platinum's direction. The other dragonborn only grinned back with a lazy line of sharp, glimmering teeth and raised his hand to the wheel's operator.

"I'll put mine on five black," he drawled, suddenly seeming far more sharp witted. "Your bet, copper?"

"Black--" Donaar glanced at Thriss with a frown as the drow's fingers dug into his shoulder. The dragonborn sighed heavily and said, "I mean…Red. Red four."

A sense of _rightness_ clicked in Thriss' mind and the pressure crushing him evaporated. He took a deep breath, eyes snapping to the wheel as the marble launched down the track, scraping against the smooth wood.

"If I lose, it's your fault," Donaar groused, folding his arms in a huff.

"I'm very sorry," Thriss replied on reflex, but in truth he didn't care, eyes fixed on rising red lines displaying a flicker of the future in spinning, entwining, writhing strands. The spools of fate, of probabilities, twisting toward one outcome. If he hadn't known to watch one spot in particular, Thriss might have missed when those lines coalesced. As they settled into place he knew with utter conviction when the marble finally came to rest it would be in red four. This power, to foresee fate, was the message of the unknown god. A hint at its nature. Why it delivered this vision to him, a lowly boy of a failing house, was beyond understanding.

For the second time that day, he felt…special.

A jolt of revulsion shattered his fragile jubilation as an intrusion violated the weft. The platinum dragonborn's miasma forced itself between the strands, disrupting the clean mathematical harmony. Interposing a will of their own, the head-like pseudopods began biting and tearing at the stands, each rip as painful to Thriss as though the teeth ran along his own tendons. They defied the natural pull of the universe, yanking it away from events as intended toward a new number, a new outcome. The marble skipped in its track. Two separate realities warred at the table, one towards red four, the other for five black.

Fury unlike any he'd experienced in his eighty years quickened his blood. Though he possessed no powers, no strength, no value, he knew the rightness of this unknown god's design and swore in his faithless heart to see its will done. He might be the humblest of servants, but from this moment forward, _k'hil_ no more. _Ku'nal,_ faithful, now and forever. His face turned toward the source of the intrusion, the smug platinum dragonborn. For base commerce and wealth this insect played with the natural rhythm of the universe? Disrupted its fine calculus for petty pride and coin?

No.

The red strands ran through everything, matter and time alike. He saw their influence in his feeble form of meat and knew what must be done, giving over control of his body to its superior will. Through him, the god acted, and with a flick of his fingers exerted its might with the delicate, destructive force of an expert sniper. A single strand in the weave whipped across the miasma and severed all five heads. With a piercing shriek only Thriss could hear, they vanished.

_Rattle._

_Clatter._

_Click._

Red four.

Twin howls buffeted Thriss' ears, one of triumph, the other outrage.

"Ha! What'd I tell ya? I never lose!" Donaar reached across the table and began hauling coins to his side. When his claw fell on the box, the platinum dragonborn grabbed his wrist and heaved Donaar up and over, throwing him across the room through a dicing table. Patrons screamed, the band stopped with an ugly brass squeal, and gold scattered across the floor. Donaar sat up, pushing off bits of broken wood, and shoved himself to his feet, acid dripping from his jaws.

"Sore loser, huh buddy?" Donaar spat, a hissing glob of green that dissolved the carpet it touched. "All right, you want some of this? You want a piece of **_DONAAR_**?" His voice took on a strange, reverberating rumble.

" ** _CUZ I GOT A BIG PLATE OF PAIN FOR YA, HOT FROM THE OVEN_**!" Donaar held one hand up in a fist near his mouth, pointing the other at his opponent as though directing a charge. The sound of his voice hit like a cave-in and Thriss felt a shockwave buzz through the floor. Was this the strange power Thedral warned Thriss about? The platinum dragonborn took one step forward, teeth bared. He spread his arms wide and Thriss saw the miasma begin to reform, but whatever force fed the platinum's power, it had not recovered from the strike of Thriss' unknown god. Though the five stumps quivered and thrashed, they remained a fraction of their earlier size.

" ** _I CAN DISH IT OUT. CAN YOU LITTLE MAN?_** " The challenge echoed in the room, patron and server alike held in rapt attention, but while they saw two warriors facing off, Thriss saw the powers of two gods at war. A copper shimmer stretched out from Donaar like giant wings and clapped together. A force struck the shadows around the platinum dragonborn like a burst of wind, shredding the weakened haze into ragged, trailing scraps. The platinum dragonborn staggered back as though physically struck, pupils blown wide and mouth open as he panted. He fell to his knees, looking dazed.

Donaar sneered, dusting off his hands. "Yeah," he said, in his normal voice. "That's what I thought." He walked back to the table, flicking his opponent's forehead as he passed, and said "Go find a closet and fall asleep."

The platinum dragonborn lurched to his feet and staggered away.

Thriss no longer wondered at Donaar's continued survival. He had far larger questions to contemplate now.

"Well, he handled that better than expected," an elderly voice said from Thriss' side. The drow nearly jumped out of his skin, skittering several spaces to the side and dropping in a low bow. When had the old halfling shown up??

"Grand -- uh -- Rosie. Hello. Again. So soon? Unexpected pleasure." His hands ran through a frantic cascade of pleasantries.

"Nice to see you too, sweetie," she replied with a firm pat on his arm, hopping onto the table next to Donaar's winnings. She snapped her fingers and Vern trotted up with a burlap sack, which he dutifully loaded with coin and the box. "Impressive trick," she said to Donaar.

"No trick to it, lady. Guy was all talk," he replied, flexing his arms.

"All the same, I'd be careful going home tonight," Rosie replied. "That fellow might be new in town, but I heard he rolled in with a few friends. He might come looking for revenge. That's the problem with letting trouble walk away." Her eyes glinted, cold and hard as a cut gem. Thriss instinctively shrunk in on himself at her tone. Donaar didn't seem to notice the danger, too focused on receiving the bundle of treasures from Vern. The halfling trembled under the bag's weight, but Donaar threw it over his shoulder as though it were empty. He looked at Thriss and grinned.

"Not bad for a day's work. Although you _still_ haven't gotten me a present," he said to Thriss.

"Oh come now, I'd say he got you plenty," Rosie clucked. "After all, if it was going to be his fault if you lost, shouldn't credit also go to him for the win?"

"How did -- ?" Donaar began, but the old woman only gave Thriss a wink and turned her back on the sputtering dragonborn. "You kids have fun now," she said, and stepped off the table. Her feet sank into the shadow beneath and in a blink she was gone.

Thriss bent down to inspect the floor, but found no hole or trapdoor.

"Interesting," he said.

"More like creepy," Donaar replied.

"Do you accept her proposal?" Thriss asked. "About the gift?"

Donaar rolled his eyes. "I mean, whatever, I _clearly_ won that on my own, but if it's _soooooo_ difficult to get me a present _I guess_ this is fine."

The relief at surviving one more rite lifted a burden from Thriss' shoulders he was not aware of carrying. He found himself smiling. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Donaar replied, hefting the bag of coin. "Guess we better head back. I _think_ all the prep stuff should be done for Prince Shimmer…glimmer…tail."

"Who?" Thriss asked.

"Some platinum who's gonna court my sister," Donaar told him. "Wonder if he'll be as weird as you. No offense."

"None taken," Thriss replied. Then looked to the door, where the platinum dragonborn exited moments before. "Are…platinum dragonborn common in Jinaar?"

"What? No, they barely ever come here. Too stuck up, think they're better'n us, even though it's _obvious_ that coppers are the best. Why?"

Thriss gestured to the door. "You don't think…that was him?"

Donaar met his eyes, mouth turned down in a frown. For a tense moment, dire implications ran through Thriss' mind, the horrible consequences of their actions and what it meant for the future of Pran's prospects, Jinaari politics, and the impact it could have on both Thriss' future and the stability of the entire region --

"PFFF hahahahaha! Man, you worry too much," Donaar said, nearly bowling him over with a hearty clap on the back. "Nah, what would a Prince be doing in a place like this?"

"What indeed?" Thriss replied.

Donaar’s tail nudged him as the dragonborn turned toward the door. It held the crumpled orange hat. Thriss examined the floppy brim and painfully vibrant ribbon, a mix of fondness and disgust warring in his heart. With a scoff he jammed the ridiculous thing on his head and trailed Donaar out of the gambling house, grimly running the numbers on precisely how doomed he was.

Yet when he regarded Donaar's strong back and remembered the wings he'd seen there, Thriss knew whatever gloomy outcomes he might predict, no amount of worry could account for the wildcard nature of his mysterious fiance. Which meant anything could happen.

Even, beyond all expectation, something good.


	7. Calling

_~THRISS~_

When they emerged from the house of Winners the streets lay cloaked in soothing darkness. As the door closed behind them it muted the raucous blare of the band and bustle of Rosie's gambling establishment. Thriss inhaled a refreshing breath of cool air and chanced a glance at the sky.

He could almost pretend it was a ceiling this way, the pricks of light only reflective eyes or phosphorescent worms. It didn't warp his perceptions quite so badly when shrouded in the deep colors of… _night_ , the Surface world called it. How strange, to be bound to the elements for the division of time. Certainly no drow clock or calendar felt so beholden.

Donaar took a step and stumbled in an obvious pothole, the bag of winnings swinging on his back. Thriss shook his head at the dragonborn's lack of awareness, but studying his fiance's pinched features realized with shock that Donaar _could not see_ in this level of light. How appallingly dull, these dragonborn senses.

Remembering how Donaar guided him through the market under the blinding sun, Thriss felt a sickly, twisting sensation in his gut. A dull ache blossomed just under his breastbone. It went against everything he'd been taught, but a part of him wanted to…help.

Thriss cleared his throat and said, in as obvious a lie as he could muster, "Oh my. How very dark it is. Might I hold your arm?" 

Much like his sarcasm, it missed his intended mark.

"Okay. I know you keep saying your eyes are fine, but are you sure? Cuz they don't seem fine. I'm not, you know, a guide dog or something," Donaar replied gruffly, but he stopped and proffered his arm.

Thriss looped his own through it, patting Donaar's hand in placation. "I'm sorry to burden you. It seems my _poor drow_ senses are not as _keen_ as your _dragonborn_ ones."

Surely _that_ was too blatant to be missed?

"I mean, you do seem kinda…squishy," Donaar said, his foot headed for another pothole in the road. Thriss lurched to the side and the dragonborn's step narrowly avoided the obstacle. "Clumsy too," Donaar added, peevish.

Thriss shook his head, smiling in disbelief. Oh well. Being underestimated kept him alive before. At least this was a game he knew how to play.

He leaned into Donaar, half shoving, half dramatically swooning, and in doing so guided them around a pile of dung.

"Alas," he moaned theatrically, getting into the role, "I fear you are right. Compared to your strength, I am but a frail and miserable creature."

"I _am_ pretty strong," Donaar agreed.

" _So_ strong," Thriss squeezed the dragonborn's forearm and pivoted, pulling them both away from a low overhang which would have clipped Donaar in the head on their next step. His fiance looked down at him, head plates fluttering, and their eyes met.

Those horrible, crystal clear, too-sincere, lovely green eyes.

"I promised I'd look out for you," Donaar said. "And I will."

Thriss' cheeks grew warm. His chest hurt and his eyes stung. What terrible, uncomfortable sensations. Foolish. He looked down, focusing on the street with a wary eye for obstacles.

"Why would you make a promise like that?" The words came out sharp with irritation. He felt Donaar shrug.

"Your sister asked me to," the dragonborn replied, with the innocence of an uneducated child.

The image of Thedral's tense back surfaced in Thriss' mind. _I want to…_ believe _he would,_ she said, only moments before warning, _Don't trust him, Thriss. Not for an_ instant.

"She doesn't still think we're best friends, does she? Cuz we are _not_ best friends," Donaar continued.

 _I hate him,_ growled Thedral in Thriss' memory.

"I think she's clear on that point," he replied, wondering how the dragonborn ever got _that_ idea.

Whatever Donaar said next was lost to Thriss as an all too familiar sound sent a spike of fear down his spine. He stopped walking and the dragonborn nearly dragged him off his feet before Thriss tore himself away, ears twitching.

There. Again. His mouth went dry.

The faint, skittering scratch of large spider legs on stone.

His body dropped into a crouch, breaths shallow to control their sound. He scanned the brightly lit rooftops, bathed in the pearlescent glow of the wide, white moon.

The rumble of a question distantly registered from Donaar, but Thriss could not focus on the words, ears questing for other, more vital sounds.

The scuff of a shingle coming loose to his right. He whirled.

Two stories up on the roof, outlined by the warm lamplight from below, loomed a massive spider with glowing yellow eyes. When Thriss spotted her, she raised her forelegs wide and menacing, pedipalps gnashing, and rushed down the sloped roof toward him.

_They know._

_They've come._

_They're here to kill the heretic._

Instinct threw him into motion, but as he turned Thriss impacted Donaar's unmovable chest. The dragonborn's claws gripped him about one shoulder, giving what Donaar probably thought was a gentle shake.

"What's going on with you?" Donaar said at his usual overwhelming volume.

Thriss tried to push the hand away, but could not compete with the dragonborn's raw strength. He gripped Donaar's solid arm, willing him to listen, and hissed urgently, "We have to go! _Now!"_

"Huh?" Donaar replied. Thriss internally cursed dragonborn dullards for their pathetic hearing. Behind them he heard a scrabble, a skitter, and an abrupt silence.

Then the enormous arachnid landed, with stone-cracking impact, directly in front of them.

" _SPIDER!"_ Donaar screamed, and still holding Thriss' arm bolted down the street in the opposite direction.

They moved in a graceless, stumbling run. Thriss could no longer guide Donaar's steps and they crashed through milk crates, bins of refuse, and even a strange set of chimes hanging over a window.

Every obstacle they encountered gave the spider one more second to catch them, yet never did piercing claw impale them or stinging poison strike. At first Thriss thought it a breathless bit of luck, but after he steadied Donaar for the third time, unease slipped beneath the drow's skin.

He glanced back, and while the spider still pursued them, it was at a lazy pace. Almost as if…

Moonlight glinted off a barely visible line ahead of them. Once Thriss spotted the first he noticed others, criss-crossing the street. A web.

With all his might, he yanked Donaar's arm, trying to stop him. The dragonborn blundered forward, dragging Thriss along. "Donaar! Stop! It's a trap!" Thriss shouted, knowing their pursuer would hear him, but unsure the dragonborn's ears could detect anything at a more subtle volume.

"Where?" Donaar slowed, looking over his shoulder, then ahead, blind to the webs.

"This way!" Thriss pulled at his fiance's hand and thankfully Donaar followed. They ducked down a side alley as the spider hissed behind them and began to pursue in earnest. The clatter of chitinous legs on hard cobbles sent lances of terror through Thriss' nerves. Instinct and practice guided his eyes to narrow spaces. A sharp turn took them into an alley so tight Donaar had to skip sideways to follow.

"Are you crazy? I can't run in here!" the dragonborn squawked.

"Neither can she!" Thriss snapped back, and indeed, when the spider reached the opening of the narrow alley she could not shove her bulbous abdomen through the crack. She chittered in fury at them and bent her legs, hurling herself up and out of view. Thriss heard claws scraping on the rooftop above them, gaining ground, then surpassing their position. He slowed, eying the exit of the alley warily.

"Is it gone?" Donaar asked.

Thriss pressed himself back against the dragonborn's chest, tilting his head up and cupping a hand around his mouth to focus the sound of his voice to Donaar's weak ears.

"She's on the roof," he whispered, gratified to see Donaar glance upward.

"It's gonna drop down on us as soon as we move to open ground," the dragonborn said, and shivered. " _Spiders._ I hate spiders! _"_

Thriss took a long, slow breath, trying to calm his nerves and bring rationality to the forefront.

He thought of the unknown god and wistfully wished he could ask it for guidance.

To his amazement, it replied.

The shadows and substance of physical reality fell away in his sight, replaced by strands of red and writhing, twisting shapes he could not make out. Around him pulsed the symbol beneath the world, woven into everything, but impossible to see. The back of his eyes itched and burned as he tried to look at it, stomach clenching as though the sight of it was something his body wished to expel.

Yet it called to him, wanted him, in a way nobody ever had. As though he had purpose and value.

Impossible, of course, for a being so far beyond comprehension to look upon a corporeal animal in such a way. Nonetheless, Thriss felt a painful, mournful, joyous grief, to receive such attention. He knew himself incapable of becoming worthy, but wanted to try regardless. On the edge of his awareness, he felt his limbs move.

Donaar's claw closing on his shoulder snapped reality back into place. Cool night air, soft moonlight, and the smell of damp refuse hit Thriss' senses like a slap to the face.

"Where are you going?" Donaar hissed.

Thriss felt torn between two realms of existence, his body a heavy weight of faulty flesh trapped in a world so beyond his control, and his mind drifting on thrumming red lines of endless potential and blissful clarity.

"I know the way," the words buzzed in his throat, and he found in saying them it was true. The unknown god guided him, to where he did not know, nor did he care. Only that he must go. He tugged against Donaar's grip, but the dragonborn would not let go. The weight of his claws pressed foreign cloth against Thriss' skin, grating in its grounding influence. The red lines faded in the drow's sight and he swallowed a snarl of frustration.

" _Believe_ _me,"_ he demanded, or perhaps pleaded, of the dragonborn. The restricting hand fell away.

"…Okay," Donaar said, "but you're acting weird. Weirder than usual."

Thriss did not reply, only chased the dissipating pull of the unknown god's presence. It lead him down the alleyway, revealing a hidden crack in the wall obscured by shadow. He ran his hand along its length to the base of the structure where brick crumbled at his touch, creating an opening. Thriss knelt, gripping the edge of the jagged stonework to lower himself through the hole, ignoring Donaar's grumbling.

He dropped several feet into a cellar, musty with mildew and rotting wood. Empty shelves, some toppled and others collapsed, filled the space. Thriss stepped forward and staggered with sudden vertigo, stomach rising as though he plummeted over a sudden drop, but the floor remained solid beneath him. His senses braced for impact, yet his mind knew no such danger existed. Or was it the other way around?

He heard Donaar yelp as his claws hit the ground hard, dropping from the ledge. With one hand the dragonborn shifted the bag of winnings to a better position on his shoulder. With the other he reached out, questing for guidance as he moved blindly through the dark space. Thriss met his hand, interlacing his fingers between Donaar's three claws. The dragonborn released a huff of breath at the touch.

"This way," Thriss said, feeling steadier from the contact, as though Donaar's presence tethered him to this moment in time. The sensation of falling faded as he drew them both forward, around the broken shelves. Though he'd never been to this place, he felt no surprise at discovering an archway at the back of the room.

"Mind the steps," Thriss said to Donaar, his voice sounding hollow in his own throat. The dragonborn's foot felt out the edge of the ledge. He balked at the step.

"I dunno about this," Donaar said. "We need to find a torch or something…"

Thriss waved his hand with an impatient sound and four globules of light formed into the shape of a small humanoid. It waved at Donaar, who jumped backward in surprise, releasing Thriss' hand.

"You could do that the whole time??" Donaar snapped.

"It's nothing special. A child could do it," Thriss said, already trotting down the steps, the call of the unknown god humming in his ears, drowning out Donaar's continued complaints. The stairs and walls became rougher as he descended, newer materials grafted onto more ancient structures clogged with sediment. An older version of the city, Thriss suspected, buried and built over as the world above modernized and moved on.

The stairs terminated in a branching tunnel and Thriss noted a faded mark in flaked paint on one of the walls. Some sort of insect, with six legs, a horizontal stripe and…wings? He could only speculate on its nature. Perhaps smugglers utilized these tunnels? Another time he might have studied it further, but it was mundane, beneath his attention in the presence of the unknown god.

Flickers of red lines led him to the right. Donaar's claws clicked on worn stone behind him as the dragonborn hurried to catch up. His fiance demanded Thriss slow down, but the drow could not, pulled forward inexorably as though caught by a hook beneath his collarbone.

The tunnel opened into a domed cavern with a wooden floor. The boards creaked as Thriss stepped on them, drawn toward the center, where a tiny beam of moonlight cut through dancing airborne particles from a hole in the ceiling far above.

As he stepped into the light, the pull of the unknown god vanished.

He swayed in the center of the room, hollow and cold. What happened? Why had it abandoned him? Did he do something wrong?

He turned, lost and bereft, as Donaar stomped toward him, heavy footfalls sending up clouds of dust. The floorboards wobbled and bucked, groaning under the dragonborn's weight.

Thriss again felt a wave of vertigo. In sudden realization, he held out a warning hand to Donaar. As the dragonborn closed rough claws around Thriss' thin fingers, the boards snapped, buckled, and broke beneath them.

They plummeted into the unknown together.

* * *

_~ DONAAR ~_

Consciousness returned slowly as pain in his back and arms made itself known. Ugh, did Kamit put him through another "training" session again? He was great at fighting, he didn't need her "help" to be better with a sword. A sharp ache under his left shoulder spurred him to sit up and he realized the warm weight on his chest wasn't a blanket, but a body. Memories of the floor collapsing under them, followed by another after that, returned to Donaar. He recalled pulling Thriss in close, protecting the drow's fragile form by letting his own armored muscles take the brunt of the damage.

Was it enough?

"Hey. _Hey,_ " he said, giving Thriss a shake.

Thriss groaned in his arms and relief flooded Donaar's body, leaving his limbs shaky.

"Do that light thing again," Donaar demanded, brusquely pushing Thriss up to sit, not wanting the drow to know how worried he'd been. Worried? Donaar? Pff, no, why did he think that? What a dumb word. _Worried._

He just…didn't want to sit around in the dark.

Alone.

With a dead body.

 _Anyone_ would have the same concern. Just ask them. Right now, go up to a stranger -- do it! -- and say, _Hey, you wanna sit in the dark with a dead person?_ And you know what they'd tell you? _NO! WHY WOULD YOU EVEN ASK ME THAT? THAT'S CRAZY! YOU'RE CRAZY!!_

Donaar was definitely not crazy. Or worried. Nope. Not worried at all.

Thriss still hadn't said anything.

"Well?" Donaar prompted, because maybe those drow ears were as bad as Thriss' eyes and the squishy mammal hadn't heard him. Not because he might have brain damage or anything that was _stupid_ , why would you even _think that?_

The freaky glowing gnome thing appeared again and somehow, even though it didn't have a face, it looked concerned.

"We're _fine_ ," Donaar snapped at it. "Don't freak out you big baby."

The glow gnome took a step back, apologetic. It reminded him of Thriss somehow. He glanced over at the drow, but Thriss sat turned away from him, staring into the darkness around them. Ignoring Donaar _again._

"You're welcome, by the way," he said, pointing upward. In the dim light a broken floor was just perceptible twenty or so feet above them. Thriss didn't respond and Donaar dropped his hand, feeling angry. Definitely not hurt. Only babies felt hurt when nobody appreciated him. He was a big boy. Big boys got righteously indignant.

Kevin tapped him on the shoulder, hard and urgent, before shoving something into Donaar's arms. The box from that platinum chump. Or what was left of it. They must have landed on it. When Donaar didn't immediately open it, Kevin impatiently dug under the splintered wreck of the lid and jimmied it off.

"What is it b-- _OHMIGAHWD!"_ Donaar's voice echoed back to him, bouncing off the walls in the underground cavern as he beheld the contents of the box. An egg. A lovingly decorated platinum dragonborn egg.

With a crack in it.

"Ohnonononono!" Donaar dug his claws into the fabric surrounding the damaged egg, thinking he could pull it out, but stopped as the image of an unborn child spilling onto the ground filled his mind. _What should I do? What should I do??_

He sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, laying his claws gently on the crack and closing his eyes.

_Vars Melis! Please! Help me!_

Warmth blossomed in his stomach, spreading outward and upward through his chest and down his arms. He felt his heart slow, the fear falling away as a deep calm and ancient wisdom settled on his shoulders. Everything would be okay. He was exactly where he needed to be.

Donaar opened his eyes. Beneath his hands, the crack vanished, the egg glowing warm and glimmering. Donaar held it to his chest with a sigh.

"Do you call upon your god or does it call upon you?" Thriss asked, in that weird, detached tone he'd been using ever since the alleyway. Like he was speaking to someone else, and just happened to be facing Donaar. Even when this drow was _talking_ to him, Donaar still felt ignored.

"What's with all the personal questions about my god lately?" Donaar snapped back. "You got a problem with Vars Melis?"

In the dim light of the glowing orbs, Thriss' eyes looked glazed and unfocused. The drow didn't answer, head listing to the side, yet again turning his back on Donaar to stare into the same spot of darkness. Like a marionette pulled up by its strings, the drow lurched to his feet and took an unsteady step forward. Kevin whipped around Thriss' ankle. After a few tugs against his hold, Thriss looked down, brows gathering in a confused frown, as though he couldn't understand why his foot wasn't moving.

"I don't know what's going on with you, but this ends now. A baby almost _died_ Thriss!" Donaar said, clutching the egg.

Thriss blinked several times, _finally_ looking Donaar in the eyes.

"…That's a child?" the drow asked, pointing at the egg.

" _Yes!_ Geez, how are drow babies made?" Donaar asked, indignant.

Thriss knelt down in front of him, extending his hand, hovering over the surface of the shell.

"May I…touch it?" the drow asked. Donaar shrugged and Thriss let his soft fingers trail over the painted designs and jeweled embellishments. "It's warm!" he exclaimed, a smile of awe and delight chasing away his dour frown of concentration. So much excitement over a regular old egg. It was…kinda cute.

"I mean, yeah, there's a person inside," Donaar told him. "Obviously."

Thriss' thumb ran along a chain of pearls circling the widest part of the egg.

"What are these for?" Thriss asked.

"Don't drow decorate their eggs?"

"We don't have eggs."

"I'm never getting over how weird you guys are," Donaar said, shaking his head, trying not to imagine an egg-less birth. It must be _super_ gross. "Parents decorate the egg to…you know…show everybody the baby is loved. It's a treasure, right? So, you show it off. And this way, when the baby breaks through, the first thing they see is how much everybody cared."

Thriss sat back on his haunches, the happy expression fading into…a…less happy expression? Still a smile, but there was something…off about it.

"How very…" the drow trailed off, lips pressing together, "Fanciful."

Thriss looked over his shoulder again, then sighed, settling cross-legged in front of Donaar.

"I asked about your god because…I think…I'm being called," he said.

"What, by Vars Melis? Or…uh…what's her name? Creepy spider lady?" Donaar suppressed a shiver. _Spiders._

Thriss sneered. " _No._ Not her. Or Vars Melis. At least, I don't think so?"

"You aren't sure?"

Thriss smiled again, that awed, delighted smile. He held up his many long fingers, wiggling them. It made him look like…well, like they were actually the same age.

"I'm not! Isn't that grand?" Thriss exclaimed.

He still talked like an old person though. Who said things like _grand_ anyway?

"So how do you know this god isn't evil or something? Huh? Did you think about that?" Donaar asked, setting the egg in his lap as he tore out the cloth lining of the shattered box.

"Evil?" Thriss asked.

"Uh. Yeah. You know? Bad? Wrong?" Donaar wrapped the velvet scraps around the egg. He needed a way to carry it...

"You mean, incorrect? Or foolish?" Thriss sounded confused.

"No! Seriously? Right and wrong. Good and evil. You know, little voice on your shoulder? Your conscience?"

"Con-shun-sssss," Thriss mouthed the word. "And this is a voice? Whose voice?"

"Your own!" Donaar shouted, frustrated. Was Thriss making fun of him? He glared at the drow, but Thriss only shrunk back, his eyes wide and lost. Like he wanted to understand, but was almost afraid to.

The way he'd looked above, when Donaar stopped him from running off, just before the floorboards broke. How could somebody be afraid of something so much and want it so bad at the same time?

"Okay…conscience. How do I explain this? Uh…" Donaar looked down at the egg in his hands, then at the cloth bag full of coin, then groaned. "All right. So…I want this gold, right? It's mine. You 'gave' it to me and also I won it fair and square. I need the bag to carry the coin. But this egg? It has to be kept warm. So I gotta use the bag as a baby bjorn instead. Have to keep it close to body heat or it'll die. "

"Everything dies. You don't even know this egg," Thriss said.

"That's not the _point._ What matters is this kid is helpless, and we're not, and we gotta look out for the little guy!"

"Why?"

"Because that's the _right thing to do!"_

"And a voice tells you this?"

"Well…no…" Donaar yanked on the bag, ripping the seams. "That's just what everyone says. I usually feel it. You know…in my tummy." He patted his gut.

Thriss put a hand to his own belly, watching Donaar turn the bag into strips.

"I thought…" the drow glanced up, his cheeks a pale lavender. "I thought I was the only one who felt that. Like there were… _right_ things to do, but…those weren't always the _correct_ things to do. I didn't know there was a word for it."

This time Donaar looked away. That lost expression was…too uncomfortable.

"When I was a kid," Donaar began, carefully tying strips of cloth around the egg to secure it, "I used to feel…a call. In my gut. From Vars Melis. But…nobody ever believed me."

_Such an imagination, Donaar._

_It's just gas, dummy._

_Stop trying to make yourself sound special._

"…it's why I became a Paladin, you know?" he said. Donaar never told anybody his reasoning. Didn't need to. It was kinda expected of him, that he'd go that route, but being a Paladin _meant_ something to Donaar.

He finished tying straps to the egg, then attempted to secure the make-shift bag to his body. Even with Kevin's help, Donaar struggled to hold the egg to his chest and tie the bjorn around him at the same time. Thriss interposed his own thin fingers, taking the trailing ends out of Donaar's claws. The drow neatly tied one of the straps around Donaar's neck, the other around his back. Donaar tested the fit. Nice and snug.

"I don't think the call I'm feeling is…evil," Thriss said. "I think it's…correct."

"You mean, good?" Donaar asked.

Thriss shrugged. "Correct," he said again.

Did that mean Donaar was correct, and the god was good? Or was he saying that the god wasn't _good_ good, but was good in a drow way, which apparently didn't _actually_ mean good?

Talking with this guy for too long gave Donaar a headache.

Egg secured, Donaar stood up, sparing one last forlorn glance at the gold spilled on the floor. He bent down and tucked a few in his pockets. Then a few more. When his pockets got full, he turned a considering eye at Thriss' new pants. _Technically,_ Donaar bought those pants _for_ Thriss, so really, didn't that mean that he owned that pocket space? Yeah. Those pants were just on loan. He shoved some of the coins into Thriss' pockets. The drow, who watched the process with a raised fuzzy brow, didn't protest. Only asked, "And is your _conscience_ telling you to do this too?"

Donaar decided not to answer. See how Thriss liked being ignored. Ha! Take that!

It didn't seem to bother Thriss as much as it did Donaar, which honestly was just rude.

"You know, you could stand to be a little more grateful. After all, I'm going out of my way here, just so you can follow some calling," Donaar said, hands on hips.

" _Thank you_ , Donaar," Thriss replied, gracefully looping one hand through the crook of Donaar's arm, the way he'd done on the street. Then the drow patted his arm. "I'm very fortunate to have someone _so strong_ join me on this trip."

Donaar felt his plates ripple again. Would they _knock it off_ already?

"Yeah, well. Don't mention it," he replied, and stepped into the shadows, Thriss in tow.


	8. YOU. ME. TALK. TEAM?

_~ THEDRAL ~_

 "What do you want to bet, he's taken Thriss out to one of those commoner gambling dens?" Kamit scoffed. As usual, the siblings gathered in the library for an evening meeting, unaware of Thedral eavesdropping.

"Ugh, I hope not," Pran replied. "Maybe…Donaar took him on a romantic moonlit walk along the riverfront?" A deep, dreamy sigh.

"I can't believe you said 'Donaar' and 'romantic' in the same sentence," Schlagur groused, his words accompanied by the sharp click of glass on hard wood and the slosh of spirits. Thedral made a mental note of his drinking habits, in the event she needed to poison the spymaster later.

"Regardless, I hope they're having fun with the Rite. Donaar _did_ get Thriss a gift. It arrived this afternoon," Nase said.

"Really? What was it?" Pran asked, eager.

"I didn't _look._ That's rude!" Nase replied.

"Ugh, you're so _boring,_ " Pran groaned.

"I wonder how much of a cop-out he went for," Kamit said. "How big was it?"

"For your information, there were _several_ boxes," Nase replied.

" _Multiple_ gifts? You're kidding!" Pran exclaimed.

"I told you guys, he's on board," Nase said.

"A little _too_ on board, if you ask me," Kamit grumbled.

"You're just mad I'm gonna win the bet," Pran laughed. "Two weeks is juuuuuust long enough for Donaar to get tired of pretending."

"You're both wrong. He'll see this through," Nase told them.

"Oooh, is that a bet, Nase? I thought you weren't a gambling man," Pran teased.

"Call it a declaration of faith. You guys never give him enough credit."

"I will when he _earns_ it," Kamit replied.

A harsh, nasal rumble interrupted them.

"… _Vars,_ is Schlagur asleep?" Kamit asked. She sounded as appalled as Thedral felt.

"That drow agent really has him in knots," Pran said. "I'd like to meet her. Anybody that gives Schlagy this much trouble must be super fun to hang out with."

Thedral caught herself smiling and consciously turned the expression into a frown. She was not _fun_. She was very serious and responsible, thank you very much. And she certainly wouldn't waste time _hanging out_.

"You're not mad about burning your dress this morning?" Kamit asked.

"It was worth it to see Schlagur's face once we got the webs off," Pran chuckled.

"I wish the seneschal felt the same way. He will _not_ stop talking about the fresco in the main hall. He…went to mother about it." Nase's voice dropped to a subdued, fearful volume, as befitted an underling discussing their Matron Mother.

Even if this firstboy _did_ wield an unusual power in this household (Thedral couldn't believe Thriss had been _right_ about that) common sense still held sway when it came to the highest authority. During the past few days, Thedral had heard whispers of a king, but he was unseen and uninvolved. Perhaps a pet of the Matron Mother, kept caged? Thedral still had so much to learn of dragonborn traditions.

"Don't worry," Pran said. "I've been talking with the staff. We've got a plan to dress it all up with decorations. Nobody will know the difference. Not even snobby mister platinum Prince Shimmerscale."

"Speaking of, you still okay with this arrangement?" Nase asked.

An unusual moment of silence from the rowdy dragonborn siblings. Then a sigh.

"Sure. It's…you know. It's fine. Not like I ever expected to…fall in love. That's not what princesses do, right?" Pran said. "Gotta be practical about this stuff."

"Maybe he's a nice guy?" Nase replied.

Kamit snorted. "He's a platinum. They're all horrible"

"Gee, thanks Kamit, that really helps me feel better," Pran drawled loudly. For some reason, it reminded Thedral of her brother. She didn't see how such a statement could help anyone's _feelings,_ but dragonborn were weird.

Thriss was pretty weird too though. Maybe that was the connection?

Soon after the dragonborn siblings parted ways. While most retired to sleep their indulgent eight hours, Pran began directing servants in redecorating the entrance hall. Thedral watched through a slit in the ceiling as they scurried about, quick to obey orders. Pran issued commands with confidence, but a confusing lack of cruelty. There were no threats, no cuffing when a servant moved too slow. Not even of the elderly! In a shocking moment, Pran _assisted_ a man too weak to adequately perform his duties alone, rather than beating him. Did Pran not know she must demonstrate her power in order to keep it?

Dragonborn society wasn't just weird, but beyond Thedral's comprehension. Yet somehow it functioned? She felt transfixed by the proceedings, fascinated and disturbed. However, as interesting as such observations were, she had a job to do. Those gifts Donaar sent could be trapped. She needed to inspect them before Thriss returned. Knowing him, he'd just stick his hand inside without a second thought and get it lopped off or some such nonsense.

_Boys._

Thedral found several bags stacked just inside the door of Thriss' room. They were made of paper, an expensive, rare product to use as a means of carrying something. The gift inside must be opulent indeed. While the paper was too thin to contain any bulky mechanisms, she still checked for embedded needles and poisonous powders. Finding none, Thendral peered inside, then slowly cut away the bag with her dagger rather than reach in. It might be fancy, but she couldn't let that distract her.

The keen blade parted the material easily, revealing stacks of brown boxes tied shut with simple twine, the material similar to the bags, if somewhat thicker. She poked them with her dagger, maneuvering each to check for hidden strings or suspicious substances. Once satisfied, she carefully cut the twine and eased the lid off the top, testing for any unusual resistance.

What she found inside set her body buzzing with rage.

Clothes. Simple ones. Minimal embroidery, uninventive cuts, basic dyes. Long sleeves, loose, designed to cover, not accentuate or flatter. Such outfits were fit for a servant, not a consort, let alone a royal one! Where were the gemstones? The brocade? The silk? The precious metal? Donaar expected her brother to wear these? What an insult! How dare he mock their house this way!

She tossed open the next box and found more of the same, flinging the pitiful, plain garments over her shoulder. Anger sent sparks through her body, heat to the tips of her ears. This was outrageous! Did Donaar plan on humiliating her brother, parading him around in clothes so beneath his station? He _promised_ to look after Thriss. He _promised_ and she _believed_ him.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she attempted to calm herself, hand clenched on a shirt of dull gray with gathered sleeves. The fabric felt coarse compared to the spider silk she was used to, but far lighter and cool to the touch. She'd never seen its like before. Perhaps, by surface standards, this was an expensive fabric? Maybe she was being too hasty in her judgement? Even if they _did_ look abysmally dull, especially compared to the shining materials she'd seen Donaar wear, glimmering with golden thread.

She turned to the last box, promising not to over-react if she found yet another boring set of basic shirts and slacks.

A froth of obsidian lace spilled from the box, silver charms adorning silken straps. Thedral held it up, trying to discern how it was supposed to be worn. Glinting buckles connected to sheer hose so fine it shimmered like woven cobwebs. Thedral shook out the garment, admiring the pin-pricks of crystals hidden in the delicate lace.

This was more like it! Drow women granted only their favored consorts such gifts. Nothing demonstrated a Matriarch's social prowess like flaunting her man's finest features. The more revealing and sensuous, the better. After all, only the strong could claim and keep an especially tempting prize.

The image of her brother wearing such a garment floated through her mind, but wouldn't stick. It seemed…wrong somehow? As though he was made out of marble in her mind's eye, a statue to be draped and decorated, instead of flesh and blood. Just another pretty bauble in a Matron's collection, ogled and coveted by her rivals. The men who wore such garments were graceful, placid, obedient things, reveling in the attention, knowing how to move just so in order to entice, but not too much. You could tell they enjoyed their status as favored consorts, masters of playing the games of intrigue governing their world. Men who thrived in a Matron's house knew how to keep their mistress entertained and her enemies distracted. It was what all boys aspired to be. Desired by others, comfortable, and doted upon.

Except Thriss wasn't like the boys Thedral saw in other houses.

Or was he?

She shook her head. Thriss refusing to accept his station was the real problem. If anything could tame him, marriage would, and he'd be better off for it. He'd still be _him_ of course, but tempered. Elevated. Empowered. A Royal Consort. If the idea felt strange, it was only a natural resistance to change. She'd learn to see him that way. A better way. Less awkward and defiant. He just needed to find a place to fit, that was all. Once he did, he'd settle down. These dragonborn were weird, but maybe that would make it easier?

Eventually Thriss would wear things like this every day, flaunting the untouchable power and prestige of his house. Satisfied and safe, envied even, proving his worth so clearly even their Matron Mother would view him as an asset. He'd live an ideal life, all carefully arranged by Thedral because she…wanted to advance him for their mutual advantage.

Of course. Only that, and nothing more.    

She tried again to envision his future as a glittering consort, but the image remained stiff and small in her mind. She needed time. They both did.

Thedral carefully folded the garment, mindful of the delicate fabric. A card fluttered to the ground. Several hearts were drawn on it, along with a winking face.

> _Something to surprise that big boy of yours._
> 
> _Enjoy your honeymoon, sweetie._
> 
> _\- Rosie Beestinger_

Thedral tucked both card and garment back into the box. She must have misunderstood the nature of the other clothing. Donaar intended no offense. Having verified the safety of the gifts, she gathered and placed them on the bed. Thedral debated waiting for Thriss in his room, but decided she'd rather watch Pran boss around servants than while away the hours in isolation. 

When she resumed her position at the ceiling slit above the foyer, Thedral found the work already complete. A remarkable display of efficiency. Fresh plaster patched the worst of the damage, covered up by decorative silks and pedestals topped with strange and pungent floral arrangements. The end result struck a masterful balance between opulence and casual wealth. Thedral couldn't help but admire Pran's flair. The dragonborn certainly understood the importance of presenting the proper face.

Thedral inhaled the perfume of the odd blooms and waited for her brother's return.

Except...he never came back.

The light changed outside and stayed bright for hours before the dragonborn siblings inquired about Donaar and Thriss' whereabouts. A response so slow Thedral suspected a plot at first, as though they'd planned an assassination and went through the show of concern only for each other's benefit. Eventually forces were mobilized, Schlagur's office turning into a flurry of reporting agents with largely useless intelligence. Most had been deployed elsewhere. Somehow, nobody thought Donaar's wellbeing was at risk within the city.

Thedral discovered with horror the two boys had been permitted to wander, _alone_ , without escort. Boys! By themselves! Unsupervised, vulnerable, foolish, feckless _boys_ given lease to indulge in any frivolous idea with no feminine influence to keep them in check. Just ripe for the taking by any rival house! Thedral did not know if madness or incompetence drove such rash deeds, but either way it yielded disaster.

She should have gone with them.

Never mind that they left during the day, or the outside of the palace was guarded far better than the inside. Instead of playing pranks on Schlagur and laughing inside the walls, Thedral should have leveraged the distraction to slip across the courtyard and under the carriage. Regardless of not knowing how such a device worked, or if there'd be room for her to fit underneath, or any other lazy excuse.

If Thriss was hurt, Thedral's vengeance on House Blit'zen would be swift and bloody.

The day wore on and Thedral's muscles cramped as she continued monitoring Schlagur's office from within the walls, waiting for any lead she could investigate on her own once the sun set. The air grew hot and close in the afternoon. Stress and lack of rest wore on her. She leaned against the dusty wall of the secret passage, eyes drifting shut.

_BAM!_ A door slammed open. Thedral snapped awake.

"Schlagur! Where is he?" Pran's voice, loud and irate.

"As soon as I hear word on Donaar I'll tell y --" Schlagur began, but she cut him off.

"No! Shimmerscale! The platinum delegation! I know you didn't have anybody watching Donaar, but surely you've been keeping tabs on the border?"

"Of course I have! We watched them the whole way. Last I heard, they were ahead of schedule."

"Well he _stood me up!"_ Pran's volume set the walls vibrating.

"What? But -- he's definitely in the city. My agents reported on his whereabouts yesterday!"

"So where is he _now?"_

A pause.

"I…I don't know. We pulled in everyone to look for Donaar. I figured…since the platinum delegation was in town…it wasn't…uh…" Schlagur's volume dropped more and more, eventually fading all together. Thedral could only imagine the death stare Pran leveled at such a useless boy. It must be quite impressive. She tried to picture it in her mind and felt a shiver run up her spine.

Thedral waited for some sort of punishment to be meted out, but after a moment of thrilling tension heard only the heavy thumps of Pran's retreating steps, a door slam, and Schlagur's heavy sigh. Disappointing.

Lingering here did Thedral no good. She abandoned her position and used the now-familiar passages to trail Pran. Nobody got more done than a woman enraged. Pran moved with furious purpose and servants dodged out of her way like spiders bolting from a disturbed web. The dragonborn paused near the palace entrance, examining the damaged fresco.

She approached the hidden switch, pulling on the decorative sconce that opened the hidden wall panel. Unlike Schlagur, who shoved his face in so heedlessly the day before, Pran grabbed a bouquet from the decorations and used it to test the space. When no new traps sprung, only then did she examine the inside. Thedral respected such caution. She almost regretted not setting a new trap. It would have been interesting to see how _this_ dragonborn dealt with it.

Thedral watched from the ceiling vantage point as Pran considered the open passage. The princess looked around, making sure the servants had all fled, and pulled a small book out of her pocket. She scribbled something down, paused, and made several additions. Then she ripped the page out, folded it, and placed it inside the passage. A quick tug on the sconce a second time sealed the door. Pran nodded to herself, then left.

Curiosity sent Thedral scrambling down the ladder, navigating the warren of tunnels until she could open the note.

> _Drow Agent,_
> 
> _I want to talk. Meet me in the kitchen cellar just after dark. I'll bring food._
> 
> _\- Pran_

Underneath the words, written in draconic, were simple drawings of a dragonborn head and a drow head, both with their mouths open, and between them a mushroom and a triangular wedge.

A trap? Perhaps, but Thedral and Pran shared a common purpose in finding their missing brothers. Thedral would take the risk.

* * *

_~ PRAN ~_

Schlagur operated his spy networks by the numbers. Troop deployments, financial records, distances covered, entries logged. His structures were formal, defined, and carefully monitored. Her elder brother looked for patterns and evaluated breaks in routine. Always an eye on the larger machine, but little attention spared for its cogs. 

Pran, on the other hand, considered herself a pragmatic people person. She chatted with strangers and staff alike, learned their preferences, their hopes, their quirks, even the names of their kids. People liked talking to Pran, found her silly and harmless, sometimes told her things they shouldn't. After all, what would a cute and clueless little girl do with a secret here or there? Especially if it made them sound impressive and intelligent to an audience as appreciative as Pran. She didn't mind playing the fool for them. Unlike her siblings, who tried to make everything more important and somber than it was, Pran reveled in being ridiculous. Far more fun that way.

What she couldn't learn by listening, she gleaned from watching. You never knew what information might be valuable down the line, like a favorite color or hobby. Even if most of the time it only gave her a reputation as a great gift giver. She liked making people comfortable, and not just because they might let something juicy slip, but because it was nice. It wasn't a crime to be nice, no matter what Kamit might think. (Except maybe to Donaar, but he deserved it. Mostly for being the most obnoxious brother in the world.)

That's how she heard the rumors from Skolla of Tiamat cults and corrupted nobility. Pran knew better than to put her faith in idle gossip, but also not to dismiss anything out of hand. It might shock her siblings to discover Pran could indeed separate fantasy from real life, but as a connoisseur of fine tales both trashy and sophisticated Pran understood even the wildest stories hid a grain of truth. You just had to know how to look.

Thriss required more watching than listening. Not that he didn't talk. Thriss was a polite conversationalist and refreshingly sarcastic, although Pran knew none of his pointed comments would be appreciated or even noticed by the rest of her family. She nearly died suppressing her amusement when he tried to get out of the first rite by insisting on those sickles, not realizing Kamit would lead an army into battle over a point of tradition. _Far too kind_ indeed. No, it wasn't a lack of words that was the problem, but his evasiveness. Even the most basic preferences he kept to himself. Still, Pran knew the kinds of things to look for. The colors in the paintings his eyes most often drifted over, the textures on furniture and table linens his fingers lingered on or avoided, the foods during meals he savored or picked around.

Food she especially made note of. In Pran's experience, a good meal enticed and relaxed people better than sweet words ever could.

So when she arranged a meeting with the mysterious drow agent, she hoped the spy held similar preferences as Thriss. Provided the drow showed up at all.

Pran burned off nervous energy as she waited in the cellar by assembling a plate of treats for her guest. Looking down at all she'd gathered, she snorted with amusement. Perhaps a cheese board, with the addition of fresh mushrooms, would prove effective after all. Pran turned to set the collection down on a crate she commandeered to serve as a table and nearly dropped the tray in fright. Directly behind her stood a drow woman, as though materialized out of the cellar shadows. Pran yelped, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. Recovering from her surprise, she set the board down and gestured to two barrels set up as makeshift chairs. The drow did not move, red eyes fixed in an unblinking glower. A shiver ran down Pran's spine and she laughed in delight.

"Wow, you are _intense,_ " she said, the thrill of excitement reaching the very tip of her tail. She sat on one of the barrels, patting the other. "No need to be so mysterious. We're on the same side, right?"

The woman's frown deepened, if such a thing were possible. Pran sighed. When she wrote the note, she worried the drow agent might not be able to read draconic. That's why she'd made the drawings at the bottom. After all, the note this drow agent left for Schlagy had been written in a language only Thriss could read. Drow, probably. Pran didn't know. If the agent couldn't read draconic, it was possible she couldn't speak the language either. Pran switched to common.

"What's your name? I'm Pran," she said.

The drow continued to study her and said nothing. Oh boy. This was going to be harder than she thought.

"SIIIIIIIIT," Pran said in common, slower and louder. She picked up a piece of cheese. "EEEEEEAT," she said, putting it in her mouth. As she chewed, she gestured to the drow and then herself in turn. "YOU, ME," She mimed lips moving with her claws, "TALK. TEAM. FIND THRISS. FIND MY DUMB BROTHER. DONAAR? YOU KNOW DONAAR?"

Red eyes grew ever wider and the woman's lips stretched lopsidedly across her face in an expression that could have been a sneer or a smirk or something else entirely. And Pran thought Thriss was hard to read.

"The Voice. You don't have it, do you?" the drow woman asked in perfectly understandable draconic.

"Oh thank Vars, you can talk," Pran breathed a sigh of relief.

"The Voice," the drow said again. "Do you have it or not?"

"What Voice? What are you talking about?" Pran shook her head, utterly confused, but that seemed enough of an answer. The drow reached up to her long, slender ears, and pulled from each a wax and cloth plug.

"In that case, we may speak," the drow woman said, and sat down on the other barrel.

"Okay, hold on, I know bigger priorities and all that, but ear plugs? What?" Pran sputtered.

The woman picked up a mushroom and broke it in half, handing a piece to Pran. The dragonborn popped it in her mouth without a second thought, at which point the drow did the same, although in nibbles rather than one bite.

"An understandable precaution, given the powers of your siblings," the drow said. Her voice sounded rough, as though rarely used, but underneath the rasp hid a melodious richness. Pran wondered what she'd sound like if she laughed. She probably had a nice laugh.

"My siblings? What kind of Voice thing do…they… _Ooooh_. Donaar did his thing on you, huh?" Pran said, and noted the woman's blue, unscaled cheeks tinge lavender. What a charming color. Strange that both Thriss and this drow agent were blue, when Pran always thought drow were gray. Granted, her only source on that was a romance novel. Perhaps the author hadn't known any better, or made an odd stylistic choice? In Pran's opinion blue was a far more romantic color than gray.

"I…observed him use a power. On…someone," the drow explained. "He controlled their mind. Made them say things they might not normally."

"He can make people do things too," Pran said. "I think Mom can as well? It's hard to tell with her if it's magic or…Well, she can be…scary."

The drow nodded as if this were the most normal thing to say about a mother and picked up a piece of cheese. As with the mushroom, she broke it in half, sharing it with Pran. A surprisingly sweet, generous gesture. Maybe not _everything_ from _The Shadow in Her Sheets_ was wrong?

"Do women really control drow society?" Pran asked, unable to keep her curiosity at bay.

"Of course. Don't they here?" the drow replied. Another bite of cheese split between them.

"I mean…sometimes? Not really? It depends on the family I guess," Pran told her. She picked up a mushroom and mirrored the drow's gesture, breaking off the stem and handing over the cap. The woman studied it a moment, then gingerly accepted it with thin, elegant fingers. Her full lips parted, flat teeth slowly biting into the soft flesh of the delicate fungus.

Awfully warm down here for a cellar.

"What else…do…drow…uh…you know what? That's not important," Pran felt her frills display her flustered thoughts. _Priorities, Pran._ She cleared her throat. "My brother is missing and so is Thriss. I'm not gonna just sit here waiting for Schlagur's spies to track them down," Pran said. _Not to mention Shimmerscale,_ she thought, and tamped down on a rush of temper. She was Royalty with bigger things to worry about than some smug platinum Prince trying to humiliate her. He'd regret whatever game he was playing. In the meantime, she had an idiot brother to find.

"Do you have any leads?" the drow asked.

"None yet," Pran answered, glum. "We know where the coach dropped them off, but the market is a busy place. It's hard to pin-point where they went. Interviewing anybody who might have seen them could take ages. My best guess would be some commoner gambling den." She wrinkled her snoot at the thought of such a filthy establishment. No doubt full of desperate, hard-bitten criminals. With scale mites and bad teeth. What if Donaar lost a foolish bet and wouldn't pay so they took payment in blood? What if he won and somebody mugged him for his riches? What if he got on the wrong side of crime boss, and his body was out there at the bottom of the river? What if --

Pran reined in her imagination, focusing on the smooth, implacable features of the woman in front of her. A pale line of silver hair drifted out from under the dark gray hood of the drow's cloak. Red eyes narrowed slightly, almost like she was about to smile, but even that flicker of emotion disappeared. Pran had never met a person so hard to read, despite spending considerable time studying the expressions of other races. The woman's fingers flicked in a motion too slight to be a gesture, but something about the movement seemed familiar. Before she could place the sense of deja vu, the drow interrupted Pran's thoughts.

"Does the name 'Rosie Beestinger' mean anything to you?" she asked.

Pran sucked in a sharp breath. "The Grandmother? How do you know that name?"

It was one even Pran only heard whispers about, hushed ones at that. There were many titles, many names, and all of them came with a glance over the shoulder at the shadows in the room. Rosie Beestinger was a local legend, thought by some to be a myth. Pran asked Schlagur about Grandmother Night once, but he only laughed, saying it was just a smalltime gang trying to make themselves sound tough. When Pran spoke with the Captain of the Guard, the dragonborn official puffed up and declared that Rosie Beestinger -- if that is a real name -- didn't exist at all, nothing happened in the city he didn't know about, and the elite guard certainly had everything under control and definitely patrolled everywhere in the city equally bringing justice and safety to all, thank you very much.

"My sources indicate Donaar and Thriss visited a shop run by her," the drow said, enigmatic. "She might be able to tell us more about where they went after that. How can we find her?"

"There are a few people in town I could ask," Pran said, standing. Her body buzzed with pent up anxiety, eager to follow a course of action at last. The drow woman stood as well.

"I will accompany you," she declared, her voice firm and leaving no room for argument. Not that Pran would have offered one.

"Sure," Pran replied. "Glad to have the help…uh…I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"…Thedral."

"Thedral. Nice to meet you. I'm Pran."

"I know," Thedral replied, walking past Pran.

"Right. Sure. Of course you do. Being a spy," Pran said, hurrying to catch up until they both walked side by side through the halls. They passed Schlagur's study just as he emerged, his snoot buried in a report. His weary eyes glanced up as they approached.

"Pran -- Oh. You found Thriss?" he asked.

" _Vars!_ Schlagy, I can't believe you just _said_ that!" Pran snapped, turning to Thedral. "I'm so sorry, he's such an idiot," she apologized, then rounded on her brother again. " _Obviously_ this isn't Thriss! What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Whoa! Geez, sorry! They just look alike!" Schlagur protested.

"How very astute of you," Thedral said, her voice so flat and dry that it made Thriss' sarcasm seem obvious and overstated. Pran growled, wordless in her embarrassment, shoving Schlagur back into his office and slamming the door.

"Don't come out until you can stop making a complete ass of yourself!" she shouted through the door, stomping away.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the hall came from Pran's heavy footfalls. Beside her, Thedral's steps made no noise. As they reached the corner, Schlagur's door slammed open.

" _HOW DID YOU CATCH THE DROW SPY_?" Schlagur shouted.

"WITH A CHEESE BOARD!" Pran yelled without looking back.

Beside her, Thedral chuckled.

She really did have a nice laugh.


	9. Paladin

_~ DONAAR ~_

"What is a Paladin?" Thriss' voice almost didn't reach Donaar's ears, the soft sound bouncing strangely in the cramped tunnel.

"Seriously? First you don't know what a conscience is, now a Paladin? Is there anything you _do_ know about?"

Thriss' back stiffened and Donaar saw the brief glint of a glare as the drow glanced over his shoulder, eye catching the dull light of the glow gnome trundling blithely between them. After the first large cavern the path turned into winding, tight catacombs, forcing them to walk single file. Dirt and debris filled most openings, only the suggestion of doorways and windows hinting at the homes, stables, and shops which once stood there.

"I can read, write, and speak in multiple languages," the drow said, voice sharp, "I've studied arcane theories, cataloged Underdark fauna and flora," he continued, hands snapping crisply from one gesture to another.

With every word Donaar felt smaller. As though Kamit stood in front of him, hands on hips, lecturing him on all his so-called faults. Donaar's back frills caught and dragged along the low ceiling, sending a clatter of loose earth down the neck of his shirt. He wrapped his arms protectively around the egg strapped to his chest.

"Sure, whatever, but do you know anything _useful_?" Donaar snapped.

Thriss flinched, and with a sigh deflated, back curling inward, head and shoulders falling. A ghost of regret ran chill fingers through Donaar's belly.

"No," his betrothed said, "I suppose not."

The walls seemed to close in with the silence that followed. Damp, cold air filled his mouth with a bad taste.

"S-so…uh…Paladins…" Donaar cleared his throat, trying to ignore the deep, claustrophobic shadows of the narrow tunnel. "Basically, we're the best of the best. Holy warriors. Fighters."

"Who do you fight? Rival clans?"

"No! We fight for our god."

"Are the losers sacrificed? Their children perhaps?"

"What?!" Donaar knocked his head against a disintegrating lintel. " _Ow! Vars_ , you and your sister got weird ideas…"

"How else can you prove your loyalty?" Thriss glanced back as Donaar rubbed the bruised scales on his forehead. The drow paused at the next opening, patting the doorframe with slow, deliberate motions. "My, how very low this is. I better watch my head," he said, in a near sing-song.

"Yeah, no kidding," Donaar grumbled. "And not everything is about killing, okay? Paladins don't kill for our gods, we _live_ for them." He ducked through the crumbling threshold, avoiding any impacts this time.

"What does worship mean without sacrifice?" Thriss asked.

"It _means_ we follow a code. You know, all that right and wrong stuff you've never heard of."

"Your…conscience," Thriss drew the word out, as though tasting it and disliking the flavor.

"I mean…kinda, yeah. Except bigger. Every Paladin makes an oath. To uphold good. Protect the weak. Defend the light. That kind of stuff. Like a cleric, but better. Don't drow have anything like that?"

Thriss paused, hand brushing against markings on the stone wall. Donaar squinted, picking out letters carved in ancient draconic, though the light was too dim to read anything more.

"We have clerics. Priestesses, but…Men are not permitted such things. I hoped my studies might reveal magical talents, but…well, as you said, I don't know anything _useful._ Unsuitable for the military. Which means the only thing left is…" Thriss' hand made a weak gesture in Donaar's direction. "Consort," he finished glumly. He sounded _really_ put out by it. How could that be, unless…?

"Wait…are you saying you don't want to marry me?" Donaar felt an odd mix of relief and offense.

"Why should what I want matter?" Thriss replied, which didn't answer Donaar's question at all, before ducking into another tight side-tunnel.

"Well, it matters to me!" Donaar shouted after him, wedging his shoulders through the narrow opening. He huffed in annoyance as they caught. Digging his claws into the soft earth for leverage, he pushed forward undaunted. The old wood groaned, splintered, and burst in an explosion of rot.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, but his triumph was short lived. Above him the tunnel ceiling shifted, dirt and gravel raining down on his head. Thriss grabbed his hand.

"Run!" the drow shouted, pulling Donaar into a sprint, the glow gnome's tiny legs a blur of motion as the tunnel bucked and shuddered around them. Cascades of dirt and gravel rattled down, turning the path treacherous. The floor beneath them slanted unexpectedly, sending them both into a tumble. Donaar curled around the precious cargo at his chest as he fell, nose choked with dust, a thunderous rumble filling his ears. His back impacted with a solid wall, arresting his fall, but knocking the wind out of him. For a dazed moment, everything became noise, vibration, and darkness.

At last, with a clatter of bouncing pebbles and a burst of dust and mold, the rumbling ceased.  

The hazy light of the glowing gnome came into focus, looking down at Donaar with concern. Thriss heaved himself free of the dirt and loose rocks. The drow shoved a stone off of his leg, took a few wobbling steps, and sat down heavily next to Donaar.

"Cave-ins," Thriss said, panting. "That's one useful thing I know about."

"You could have warned me," Donaar grumbled.

"I'm sorry," the drow said, pinching the bridge of his tiny, flat snout. "How foolish of me to assume you knew better."

Donaar stared up at the ceiling from where he lay, spread-eagle on the ground, feeling ill-used.

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ sorry for thinking you actually _cared_ about this stupid marriage idea," he said, unsure why he was angry. He sat up, brushing dust off the egg, making sure it was still in one piece. "It's not like I wanted this either, you know."

"I care about it, Donaar," Thriss said, a weary weight to his voice. "I just…hoped to do more with my life than be a consort. A plaything."

Donaar stuck out his tongue. "Gross. That's just…I don't even know how to unpack that amount of crazy. It's not like your life stops at marriage, you know? I'm not gonna quit being a Paladin over it."

"Things are…different for dragonborn," Thriss replied.

"Yeah, well, congrats buddy, welcome to the family," Donaar huffed, throwing his hands up. "Cuz whatever weird drow rules you've been playing by down here don't fly in Jinaar."

"Oh? Really? So I, a drow male, could be…hmm, a cleric?" Thriss said, with a strange lilt.

"Yeah? Did you miss the fact that the cleric from yesterday was a guy?"

"…but he's a dragonborn."

"So?"

Thriss' mouth opened slightly, piercing red gaze searching Donaar's face.

"…I could be…a professor?" he asked.

Donaar shrugged. "Sure."

"A physician?"

"Yup."

The drow's fuzzy brows sunk lower, ripples of soft flesh appearing on his forehead. Donaar kept waiting for a delighted smile to erase those signs of worry. For his betrothed to wiggle those thin, plentiful fingers in strange celebration.

"A Paladin, like you?" Thriss said, with a slight curl of the fragile, flexible flesh of his lips.

Donaar opened his mouth to reply, but paused. Paladins were the best, so only the best could be one, which meant dragonborn royals and _only_ dragonborn royals.

"Well…" Donaar began, and saw Thriss' eyes narrow, mouth a compressing into a bitter smile.

"There are, of course, limits to everything, aren't there? It's fine," Thriss said, before Donaar could continue. The drow stood, shoulders stiff, and picked his way over the rubble without a glance back.

The glow gnome stayed by Donaar's side, even as Thriss moved out of its dim light and became an indistinct shadow. The gnome seemed…sad, somehow? Hurt. Disappointed. Guilty. Maybe a little mad? Which was a lot of emotion for a weird thing made out of lights.

Donaar, of course, was fine.

"It's not that simple," Donaar said to it awkwardly. "There are rules, you know? I don't make them! This isn't my fault."

The creature didn't respond, only waited, shifting from foot to foot. Donaar placed his hand on the egg, comforted by its warmth. He gave it a gentle pat.

"Look, if he were dragonborn, I'd witness his Oaths myself! It's just…you know…"

 _Things are different for dragonborn,_ he nearly said, but caught himself, because he didn't want to agree with Thriss. If Donaar agreed with him now, it would mean what he told the drow earlier was wrong, which was impossible. Except if what Thriss said was wrong, since Donaar was right (naturally) then things _shouldn't_ be different for dragonborn than they were for Thriss, which meant…

Every conversation with Thriss lead to a headache. The real problem here was talking, obviously. What a waste of time. Thinking too. Thoughts? Who needed them? Certainly not Donaar. No need to think when you already know everything, right?

Donaar followed Thriss, who'd disappeared up and over the pile of stone. He crested the mound, almost losing his footing at the top. Kevin corrected his balance and with the help of his tail Donaar turned the stumble into a controlled slide downhill, reaching the bottom at a smooth trot. Donaar glanced over at the glow gnome to see if he was impressed. Hard to read a tiny person made of light. He probably was though. I mean, how could he not be? Yeah. Definitely impressed. Donaar could tell.

The room at the bottom of the hill proved surprisingly large, though he couldn't make out much in the darkness beyond the rough shape of it. Finally, a place built in the right size! Donaar stretched out his arms, feeling his spine pop as he looked around. A domed ceiling arched above him, the graceful lines of stone barely catching the light. His claws clicked on cool marble floors, the polished surface reflecting the glow gnome's dim illumination as he kept pace beside Donaar. Helpful little guy. Donaar tried to pat him on the head, but his claws passed through.

"Huh. Guess that won't work. High five?" Donaar said, holding up his hand. After a moment's pause, the glow gnome held up his own tiny nub of an arm, mirroring the gesture. Donaar waited for it to move, but it only stood there. He grinned.

"Yeah, you get it," he said, and completed the self-high-five with a ringing clap, pleased to see the glow gnome perform the same gesture after a few seconds delay. Feeling accomplished, he turned back to follow Thriss and nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted two red eyes watching him from the darkness.

"GEEZ don't sneak up on me like that!" Donaar shouted, hand clutched protectively over the egg as his heart stuttered.

"I'm sorry," Thriss said, a phrase Donaar grew sick of hearing. The drow gestured to the far wall of the room. "There's something you may wish to see," he said.

"What was this place?" Donaar asked as they walked side by side toward the wall.

"A temple, I think. An old one," Thriss replied, as looming shapes resolved into a high relief carving taking up most of the wall. Four giant figures arranged around a fifth. Even before they got close enough to make out every feature, Donaar recognized the central figure as Vars Melis, handsome scales framed by grand wings. At each of his shoulders rested the claws of two other dragons, although Donaar would need to study them closer to know who they were. They were dragons and liked Vars Melis. What else mattered? Kneeling at Vars Melis' feet were two additional statues, plain and ugly in comparison, their squishy forms draped in drooping cloth. Women, maybe? Humans or elves.

Light crept up each form as they approached, highlighting new details. Donaar's stomach clenched in dismay.

"Uh…where are their heads?" Donaar asked.

Only broken stone remained where faces should be. Thriss flicked his hand and the glowing gnome swam upward through the air. As the light hovered near the ceiling Donaar saw words written in bright paint over each of the figures. Modern draconic this time, not archaic.

"Greed is ambition…" Donaar read aloud, examining the acid green letters over the first defaced dragon statue.

"Envy is inequity," Thriss added, pointing to one of the human statues. Donaar noticed the paint was white instead of green, scrawled over a bordered disk near where her head should have been. He looked at the other woman's statue and saw the symbol of two eyes surrounded by seven stars half obscured by draconic letters written in black. _Spite is justice_.

Donaar turned to the second of the less familiar dragons, this one framed by only a simple circle. _We shall claim all they have,_ written in red. He swallowed, feeling ill, forcing himself to look at the defaced remains of Vars Melis. Blue paint dribbled across the great dragon god's chest, so bright it looked fresh. He reached out a hand to touch, but found it dry. _Riches and power belong to the strong,_ the words said. Confusion and rage roiled in his belly. Vars Melis _was_ strong. The strongest!

"Who did this?" Donaar growled, his acid sacks inflating. He could feel the caustic liquid bubbling at the back of his throat.

"There's more," Thriss said, solemn. The drow pulled Donaar away from the desecrated monument. He followed Thriss in a daze, unable to look away from the destruction. A gentle nudge at his side, followed by a second, at last roused him.

"Oh…" Donaar hiccuped, a spatter of acid spraying across the back of his teeth. "You found their heads."

Mangled marble remains lay at his feet arranged in a circle, the white stone drenched in sloppy pools of paint. At the center of the circle was a rust colored stain.

"Is that…blood?" Donaar asked, dizzy.

Thriss picked his way over the circle of paint with fastidious steps, kneeling down to scrape at the splattered mess within. He sniffed his fingers, then licked them. Donaar looked away hurriedly, gagging.

"Hmm. Not goblin or drow. Wrong color for an insect," Thriss said, clinical. Donaar heaved, wiping away the burning drool dripping from his jaws. "Could be human? Halfling? I found bones in the corner suggesting something small. Perhaps a child?" the drow continued.

Donaar flailed a helpless, shushing hand behind him, hoping to head off further details. "It's cool, it's fine, I don't need more, thanks." He sucked ragged breaths through his nostrils, pressing his lips shut tight as his eyes watered.

"Five heads…I've seen something like this before…" Thriss mused, pensive.

"Tiamat has five heads," Donaar said, eager to stop thinking about how Thriss knew what different kinds of blood tasted like.

The drow examined the shattered stone at his feet, wrinkling the soft skin around his nostrils. "That platinum we met had a…" the drow hesitated, red eyes flicking to Donaar and back to the floor, "…symbol that reminded me of this."

"I didn't see it," Donaar replied, incredulous.

"No doubt I was mistaken," Thriss amended, tipping his head to the side. "Regardless, you have a problem," the drow continued, shifting one of the broken heads with his foot. "All of this damage is recent. I'd say the paint is less than a week old. The blood only a day. Which means a rival cult is active in your city. What will you do?"

"Me?" Donaar scrubbed the last of the dried acidic spittle from the edges of his mouth. "Why should I do anything?"

"You're a Paladin. You fight for your god," Thriss said, hands open to indicate the unholy circle. "Is this not the kind of challenge your oath is for?"

"Well, I don't know about that…" he said. "Paladins are more…I mean…we lead by example…and…uh…" Donaar felt the weight of Thriss' expectations press down on his shoulders with every word. This drow didn't know about right and wrong. Consciences. Thriss looked to Donaar for guidance on the most basic concepts of good and evil. What would Donaar teach Thriss?

"…so…yeah, of course I'm gonna do something about it," Donaar continued, puffing out his chest. "Just, you know, not right now. Or by myself. I gotta tell everybody about what we found. Hold a…council? Yeah. A council. It's a thing we do, for important decisions. A Paladin Council. Real official."

"Of course," Thriss replied.

"Of course," Donaar said, and then a little firmer, " _Of course._ Anyway, this isn't the god that's calling you, right?"

The drow inhaled a slow breath, then let it out with a curt shake of the head. "No," he said, looking around the chamber slowly, his gaze growing unfocused and glazed. "This way…" Thriss drifted back toward the defaced relief carving. Donaar took one last look at the pile of heads at his feet, shivered, and followed.

Thriss walked past the statues to a cracked wall. At the touch of the drow's delicate fingers the stone shuddered and collapsed. Donaar skipped back, glancing at the ceiling, anticipating another cave in. The arches held, even as the hole widened, creating an opening just large enough for Donaar to fit through.

"Great. More tiny tunnels to scrape my head on," Donaar released a long, beleaguered sigh and saw Thriss' ear twitch. The drow glanced back, the planes of his flat face thrown in strange contrast by the low light.

"I'm sorry," Thriss said. "If it's any consolation, the spider that attacked us can't fit through narrow spaces like this."

"Ugh, why'd you have to say 'spider'?" Donaar whined. Just the thought of all those webs and legs set his skin crawling. "What was that about, anyway? I thought your kind were friends or something."

Thriss laughed, dry and bitter. He ducked under the opening into a natural fissure, the walls slick with moisture. Stalactites hung down like teeth. "Oh, yes, _friends_. Perhaps to some drow," he said, "but certainly not to _k'hil_."

Thriss wound his way through the uneven columns of stone, avoiding dark puddles. Donaar did his best to follow, grumbling as he banged his head yet again. He was gonna have a permanent dent there after this trip.

"It was only a matter of time before the Priestesses sent someone to punish me _,"_ Thriss continued, the words echoing. _"_ Though I am impressed they found out so quickly. I only confessed my impiety yesterday."

A dull vibration in the floor and a hollow rumble cut off whatever else Thriss might have said. The drow pressed his ear to the tunnel wall, holding up a shushing hand when Donaar began to speak, which of course Donaar ignored. Imagine, shushing a prince? As if!

"What was that?" Donaar asked.

"Another cave-in maybe..." Thriss replied, features pinched in a frown of concentration before his eyes opened wide with alarm. He pulled away from the wall, grabbing Donaar's hand. The light of the glowing gnome vanished. Donaar felt warm fingers cover his snoot before he could protest the sudden darkness. Thriss leaned in close, mouth pressing up against the side of Donaar's head, warm breath caressing his neck. Donaar's throat went dry. With…fright, of course, except he was a brave big boy and he couldn't be scared so it was probably…uh…outrage. Dry with outrage. That's how it worked.

"We're being followed," Thriss whispered in Donaar's ear. "The light might give away our position."

The delicate, soft flesh of Thriss' palm slid up Donaar's neck to the base of his skull, pulling his head down gently. He felt the sensitive tip of his snoot ghost along the smooth expanse of his betrothed's cheek. Donaar swallowed. Also with…outrage.

"I'll make sure you don't hit your head on anything," the drow assured him.

"S-sure…" Donaar tried not to think too hard about the hitch in his breath.

He was just…really mad right now. Which is why his body felt very hot all of a sudden.

Donaar followed the pull of Thriss' gentle hands and did his best not to dwell on the sensation of the drow's skin on his scales.

Except that left his mind to wander, haunting him with the memory of the defaced statues.

Pran warned him the platinums in Skolla were getting into Tiamat cults, but he never thought it could happen in Jinaar. Why would anyone choose Tiamat over Vars Melis? Vars was the best. That was all it took to be worshiped, right?

The broken features of Vars Melis floated through his mind, the smashed stone snoot frowning at him.

He thought being the best fulfilled his Paladin Oath. Which was easy for Donaar, since he was the best without trying. For the first time he wondered if maybe Vars needed more from him than that. What might his god call on him to do?

Thriss' hands pulled his head to the side. His shoulder scraped along a dripping stalactite in the dark and cold water slid down his sleeve. The drow's questions wormed their way through Donaar's mind, forming a knot of worry.

_What does worship mean without sacrifice?_

* * *

_~ THRISS ~_

It made no sense. You could kill for a god, wage war on Her behalf, but live for Her? What deity would accept such vague, nonsensical terms as that? To uphold good? Protect the weak? Defend the light? Ridiculous sentiments. "Good" depended on who benefitted, the weak deserved to be culled, and light was a tool to be lit or snuffed out, not defended.

Such oaths might mean something in Jinaar, but disintegrated into scraps of ludicrous concepts in the Underdark. The ideas were so culturally dependent they lacked the strength to endure without mortals ascribing them purpose.

His god would be different. As he followed the strands of reality beckoning him forward Thriss knew in his gut the unknown being would demand far more than fragile words. Gods of import required sacrifice. Some in blood, some in pain, some in hardship.

Thriss did not resent this reality. He only wished for his sacrifice to serve a greater purpose than elevating another petty Priestess in the conquest of her neighbors. More than an endless cycle of self-perpetuated strife, the pointless ebb and flow of power from one mortal hand to another, would-be Matriarchs popping up like mushrooms and harvested for the main meal just as fast.

The tug of Donaar's hand in his own brought Thriss back to himself, a tether which grounded him in concerns of the flesh. He blinked, noting changes in the stone around them. At some point they'd left both the buried catacombs and the dripping caves behind, though Thriss could not recall when. The edges of the rock around them stood unworn by water or time, as though newly formed. Thin veins of crystal lanced through, drawing the eye. He tried to retrace their steps in his mind, but no memory presented itself. Only the thrum of the red strands of fate in his brain and the constant presence of Donaar's hand.

He glanced back, remembering his pledge to safely guide the dragonborn, but his fiance seemed unscathed from the trip. If unusually quiet. Donaar gnawed on one of his claws, breaths shallow. Thriss spotted a hissing bubble of froth at the corner of the Paladin's lips. Signs of distress?

As soon as he thought it, his fingers moved of their own accord, squeezing Donaar's fingers. The dragonborn's eyes darted back and forth, unable to locate Thriss in the dark. Thriss found himself reaching out, patting Donaar's shoulder, confused by the action even as he performed it.

"Hey," Donaar said, husky and low, the sound prickling across Thriss' shoulders.

"Heeeeyyy," Thriss replied, awkward and unsure of why he indulged this break in their sensible silence. Memories of their pursuer returned to him, vague and fuzzy, as though he'd been dreaming and only just awakened. He moved his hand up Donaar's neck to cup his fingers around the dragonborn's ear, whispering, "I need to check if we're still being followed."

Donaar's breathing hitched and his claws traveled up Thriss' arm to his elbow, pulling him closer. Was the dragonborn afraid?  

"I'll only be gone a moment," Thriss extricated himself. "I won't leave you. Don't worry."

"Worry? I'm not -- This is -- I'm _mad,_ " Donaar snapped, far too loud. "I'm just -- I'm just _so mad."_

"Your vengeance against the Tiamat cult will be truly terrible," Thriss replied, in his most placating tones, trying to keep the boisterous dragonborn quiet.

"My what? Oh. Right. Them. Yeah. Those people. They…they better watch out."

Thiss pulled away slowly, as though coaxing a skittish riding beetle, maintaining contact with Donaar as long as he could so the dragonborn would know where he was in the dark. Didn't want to spook the Paladin, not with him so on edge. Thriss saw the plates on Donaar's head open and close, his tail thrashing about. These Tiamat rivals must be old enemies of the Blit'zen clan, to drive Donaar to such distraction.

Touching the cold stone, he marveled at its clean facets. It did not match anything he'd encountered before, as though plucked from another time and place, embedded in the earth waiting to be discovered. The planes seemed too regular to be the work of nature, yet he could detect no sign of a woman-made tool. He breathed deeply and let his focus on the physical fall away, forming space in his mind to welcome the unknown god.

Red light nearly blinded him, the concentration of strands in the walls burning his vision. Tears spilled down his face, a pointless attempt by his body to soothe the pain to no avail. He could not shut his eyes against such glory, even as it fell upon his skin, searing more than any sunlight he'd yet endured. He looked at his hands and saw them fracture into many replications, one layered over the other in an infinite intersection of selves, as though he contained a multitude of people converging on this single moment. The symbol beneath the world filled the air with portent and presence, weighed heavy on his tongue, poured into his lungs.

A distant pain sparked through him as his knees struck the ground, cold impact on his cheek as his face pressed against the wall. Muffled, gasping sobs wrung from his throat as he choked on the immensity of his unknown god, so beyond his pathetic mortal form.

 _Yes, yes! What would you ask of me?_ he thought, elated even as his body rebelled against all it witnessed. _I am ready to serve your purpose._

A buzz of sound. Did the unknown god speak? His mind sluggishly located his ears, willing them to understand, to parse meaning from --

"Thriss? Answer me! Hey! _Hey!"_ Donaar's voice would have bludgeoned Thriss to the floor if he wasn't already on his knees. It was so…material. The press of the unknown god vanished, leaving him all the more empty for the loss. Longing, frustration, and despair burst from him in a heave of ugly, animal noise. He felt claws pat his shoulder, locating him, then close in a firm grip. Thriss flinched at the touch, but Donaar only pulled him closer. Rage gave way to grief in an insensible wash of chemical feeling, irrational and pointless, an agony lasting interminable moments.        

Senses returned in fragments. A coppery taste in his mouth, fluid bubbling at his nostril with every inhale. He swiped at it, a dark smear of blood on his hand. Rhythmic rocking, the _THUMP THUMP THUMP_ of a hand against his back in regular intervals. Half whispered words, repeated like a prayer, "I got you. Hey. Hey, I got you."

At last the world oriented itself and he found his body balled up in Donaar's arms.

Thriss stiffened. "What…are you doing?"

"Oh, so you can talk now? What the hell, man? You abandon me and all of a sudden you're crying and screaming like crazy?? I thought that spider got you or something! You're lucky I could find you in the dark," Donaar patted him again on the back. Thriss felt the force of it resonate through his ribs like a drum.

"My god spoke to me," Thriss said, wonder momentarily eclipsing the discomfort of Donaar's nearness and strange behavior.

"And it hurt you? What kinda god is this?" Donaar huffed.

"A vast one," Thriss replied. "Its presence is concentrated here. And…" he looked back at his hand, now only a single volume, streaked with his own blood. "…So am I? As though…I have always come here. Have been here before, will be again? There were so many of me…"

One of Donaar's hands fumbled around Thriss' head in the dark, claws wrapping over one long pointed ear to the base of his skull, thumb sliding over cheek and lips. Thriss' fragmented thoughts scattered in confusion.

"Boop," Donaar said, locating Thriss' nose and tapping it. A burst of shimmering orange light blossomed in front of Thriss' eyes, seeping into his skin as though he'd fallen asleep near the kitchen fires. He inhaled, his nose no longer blocked by blood, his arms and legs buzzing with energy. Tension in his shoulders and back uncoiled, a wave of relaxation washing through his muscles and settling in his belly with phantom satiation.

"Oh," Thriss breathed, distressingly content.

"You're welcome," Donaar said. "Pretty sure you had a concussion or something. I fixed it for you."

The temptation to linger there in Donaar's arms grew terrible, fraught with the illusion of safety and comfort and other untrustworthy sentiments. His eyes burned with a hollow feeling beneath his breastbone, overcome by a yearning smaller and more fragile than what he felt for the unknown god, but no less potent. The longer he stayed there the better it felt, which flooded his skin with the tingle of anxiety. This couldn't be real. It was a trick, an animal response to touch and warmth.

Thriss leveraged newly responsive limbs, thrashing his way out of Donaar's embrace.

"I don't -- Please let go -- physical touch --" he stuttered out, fear pulsing in his neck.

Donaar released him with an abrupt jerk, as though burned. "Sure, whatever. Your skin feels weird anyway," he said, petulant. "And you smell funny," he added, then crossed his arms. "It's gross. You're gross. I hate this place. Can we leave already?"

Thriss steadied himself on the cool stone, relieved to feel familiar tension creep back into his muscles. Wariness felt right, necessary for survival. He did not need creature comfort, or closeness, or someone to hold him. Such weakness was for children who'd yet to learn the realities of the world.

"Soon," he told Donaar. "I think we're close."

Not wanting to risk further contact, he summoned Glowman so Donaar could see and navigate on his own. In a strange fit of fancy and vague guilt, Thriss gave the construct a tail.

"Hey buddy!" Donaar exclaimed, talking to it as though it possessed sentience. Despite himself, Thriss thought it endearing. "Looking sharp. Up top!" The dragonborn held his hand open at shoulder height. Remembering their exchange in the Vars Melis temple, Thriss timed Glowman's gesture to match Donaar's, the tiny nubs of light clapping together in synch with the Paladin's. This seemed to please Donaar immensely. Part of the Blit'zen Dance of Hands, perhaps? Thriss found himself smiling and turned his back, focusing down the tunnel.

Glinting in the dull light he saw a doorway of crystal, a perfect arch set in the ordered planes of the wall. It flickered in his sight, lines of red, curves of other doorways overlaying, a dull hum rising in his ears and vibrating through the pads of his feet. Within he saw shadows of drow figures, some with cloaks, some with facial growths, some ancient, some even younger than he was. They crowded within the archway, an impossible number of people all occupying the same space. The need to stand among them set his feet moving before he consciously willed himself to walk. He heard their voices, his voice, filling his ears with a clamor of unintelligible words, a waterfall of sound.

His steps shifted from a walk to a trot to a sprint, trying to catch up, sensing he was behind them, late to a moment he was not meant to miss. The gradient of time tilted against him, punishing him for the critical seconds lost to an embrace that even now his traitorous skin desired against his mind's better judgement. He reached out to the shadows, their retreating backs clad in blue, and with a desperate lunge made contact.

Thriss plunged through the archway, the apparition parting beneath his fingers, and stumbled into a massive dome of honeycomb crystal.

A looming obsidian obelisk stood at the center, its shining surface covered in writing. The words were in a language he did not recognize, yet Thriss could read it all, as though he looked through the eyes of another self who knew their meaning. Was some other Thriss looking through his eyes now at their own obelisk, reading a language he knew, but they did not? The back of his head felt insufficient to contain this overlap of identity, as though his skull might disintegrate into vapor and join the morass.

As one they lifted up their hands, uncountable fingers exploring the black stone before them, each filling a mind with words they knew, but did not know, and could not remember once they ceased to look upon the letters. As one they found the single glyph that none among them knew, and together breathed in awe and vexation to find something so beyond their shared existence. It seemed painfully familiar, as though he'd seen it before, and he knew it connected to the unknown god.

This was where he was meant to be, in every plane of possibility. He'd always been out of place, but now saw his social dissonance served a greater purpose. It lead him here.

"Thriss…do you hear that?" Donaar whispered, or what passed for a whisper from a dragonborn. The sound grated on Thriss' ears, sullied this perfect moment, tainted it with mortal sensations. He turned to shush Donaar, patience at an end, when he glimpsed above on the ceiling the glimmering strands of a massive web.

A hulking shadow rose up behind Donaar, eight yellow eyes glittering in Glowman's light. The gigantic spider hooked the dragonborn's leg, yanking it out from under him. With a shout he fell, twisting his body at the last moment to shield the egg at his chest from harm.

The spider leapt up to the web she'd built across the dome's ceiling, trailing a line behind her. A moment too late, Thriss saw the loose line connected to Donaar's thrashing tail. He rushed forward, thinking to cut it, but it snapped taut and hauled Donaar into the air. The Paladin spun, one hand outflung, the other clutched protectively around the egg, screaming as the spider pulled him upward. A spike of helpless terror lanced through Thriss' chest as her many sharp legs converged on his fiance's form. They did not stab or slash, but tossed Donaar around in a disorienting whirl, bundling him in a cocoon of webbing. In moments, only the tip of the dragonborn's snout remained visible.

"Leave him alone!" he heard himself shout, and felt the echo of not only his own surprise, but the shock of his other selves. When had he grown so attached to his bumbling betrothed?

The spider chittered at him, pedipalps gnashing, and flung herself from the ceiling. Talons cracked the crystal floor as she landed, chips of brittle obsidian slicing through the air. He scrambled backward as she slashed at him with her many legs, dodging the first swipe, but not the second. Her wide swing caught him in the side and flung him backward. Thriss slammed into the obelisk, heard it crack, the carved letters of the unknown glyph bruising an imprint into his flesh.

Phantom selves scatted in his vision along different red strands as the spider charged. He remembered his duel with Kamit and allowed his body to flow with the crimson lines. His limbs linked to a future where he avoided her first leg's thrust and her second leg's slash. Rolled out from under from the stomp of the third leg. At each turn he felt a pinch of pain and heard another self cry out as they fell. Confusion and doubt prickled his skin. Was he stealing his safety from other versions of himself? Was his every moment of fortune at the expense of someone else? Why did they not hold onto their futures and choose survival as he did? Or were these dying specters only echoes of what could have been?

Whether hindered by these doubts or because it was meant to be, the fourth claw swept against the back of his knees, knocking him to the floor. His skull cracked against the stone and the guiding red lines vanished. As the spider spun to face him he scrambled for his boot, pulling out the hidden blade Thedral insisted he pack. Just as the pincers lunged for his neck, his hand found the hilt. A desperate slash at the spider's face forced her to rear back. His strike narrowly missed the arachnid's eyes, the blade clipping a red filament growing on the side of her head.

Thriss skittered backward on all fours, stumbling to his feet and dodging behind the black pillar. Rather than pursuing him around the obstacle, she attacked it, her talons cleaving through the damaged obelisk. The precious structure turned from shield to hazard, stone toppling on top of him. By supreme luck or divine miracle it split in half as it fell, each chunk striking the floor to either side of his body and bursting into thousands of sharp fragments. Glancing blows bombarded his back and sides, leaving razor thin cuts in their wake. These were small hurts compared to the destruction of the secrets written there, the loss of knowledge leaving him breathless.

He crawled out of the wreckage, feeling brittle as the stone around him. His hand slid on the shattered obsidian. Blood spattered the black shards as one sliced open his cheek. He blinked, the unknown glyph swimming before his eyes, perfectly preserved in a chunk of stone among the rubble. Thriss gripped it, the surface slick with his own blood, feeling hot liquid burn down his face and drip from his chin.

"I pledge myself to you," he whispered to it as the spider picked its way across the broken floor toward his prone form.

A talon knocked into his ribs, rolling him over as another claw rose, plunging toward his head. Instinctively he brought his hands and the chunk of the obelisk up to shield his face.

Silence.

Motion and sound ceased, the world suspended, time imperceptible and meaningless. Thriss could not breathe, but did not require breath, for in that moment he had all he would ever need and ever had needed. The symbol beneath the earth bled through the physical shapes around him, at last visible to his eyes. He saw it matched the glyph in his hand.

 _How can I serve you?_ he thought, but did not hear the god reply. Instead a cascade of his own voice assaulted him, each with a theory on the nature of the god. _The Ur_ some called it, but there were other names, other opinions. None saw the whole of it, all believed their course the right one. He heard warnings against ambition, calls for patience, demands for caution, but none possessed true answers.

Thriss shut out their voices, clearing his mind of their imperfect influence. They were as mortal and as fallible as he. In the stillness of suspended space he welcomed the Ur in.

His mind shrieked as perceptions distended, no context for the information flooding in, interpreted at first as heat and then pain and then consuming numbness before even that sensation fell away. No thought existed because no brain existed, no body, no irksome flesh to bind him in limitation. There were only laws, immutable, transcending mortal whims and culture. These were not theories on the universe, but simply the truth of it. Cause and effect tipped possibility into certainty on scales too small and too vast for mortal eyes. A natural order arranging the world. All outcomes known, time illusory as flesh.

Tears of relief and joy pricked the corners of his eyes, threatening to drag him back into his form of meat and chemicals. He willed himself to remain in the eternal perfection of this blissful certainty. Yet even as he fought to lose himself, the edges of his mortal body pulled him back, his flesh an intercessor between him and the infinite.

_Please, what must I sacrifice to stay here?_

As his mind stuttered and caught, he knew the answer. Nothing. The Ur had no desires to serve. Plans were born of mortal needs for outcomes. The Ur existed outside of time, everything already realized. It bound the universe by its laws whether mortals honored it or not.

Sacrifice was pointless. It would achieve nothing. The Ur would not care.

Consciousness crashed into flesh, trapping linear thoughts in linear forms, entombed in a frozen moment. Above his body the spider, before his eyes the talon meant to pierce, in his lungs a bubble of held air, within his chest a heart unable to beat. Only his mind rushed forward, ensnared by muscles and blood which could not serve his spirit and intelligence.

The other Thriss voices disputed his conclusion, but he knew his insight to be the right one. Helpless despair enveloped him, the pointlessness of his existence smothering his will. There was no answer to his uselessness, no escape from mortal machinations. He thought to become more than a plaything. Now he knew himself to be even less than that.

He could not kill for his god. Could not wage war, or suffer, or sacrifice. It wanted and needed nothing from him.

 _Paladins don't kill for our gods,_ Donaar's brash voice rang in his mind like a bright bell, warm orange light burning away the clinging fog of his despair. _We_ live _for them._

How could he live for the Ur?

A spark lit in his mind and with it intent. The resolution to learn the Ur's laws, even if only through a mortal's understanding, suffused his limbs with purpose. Thriss hurled his body into action. Again he sensed the gradients of time shift around him, but now they flowed in his favor. He rolled to the side as the spider's claw came down in a sluggish parody movement. In his right hand the dagger, in his left the symbol of the Ur. Lines of red spilled around his feet and he chose the ones that let him persist in the world. Up plunged the dagger, striking the sternum where each leg terminated. The carapace parted and he pressed onward, up toward the head, fluid spilling over his hand and face, spattering across his tongue as he opened his mouth in a primal scream.

The spider jerked away, legs spasming, tottering drunkenly backward, yellow eyes wide in surprise. She shuddered and collapsed in a heap of hairy limbs. Thriss stepped forward, dagger raised, knowing he should finish her, dedicate this creature's death to his god. It was what a Priestess would do in his place.

A ragged breath. Another, eyes locked with his foe. He lowered his dagger.

"Tell your Mistresses," he rasped, staring her down. "I am not _k'hil._ I am _ku'nal,_ for a god far beyond your petty Lolth. There is a natural order to the universe. I have seen it. It does not demand cruelty. That is _your_ choice. You could choose mercy just as easily! It would cost you _nothing."_ He spat, wiping the gore from his face, feeling the spider's blood burn and mingle with his own.

He expected her to lash out with her remaining strength, to punish him for his blasphemy, but she only watched him. Wary. Waiting.

"I will be more than consort! More than your mortal law. I am…" he paused, an idea crystalizing in his mind. "I am a Paladin of the Ur," Thriss declared, laughing at the absurdity of such a thought. "I make an oath," he said, then louder, " _I make an oath!"_ A fragile hope flitted through him, that Donaar might hear. "I will uphold the natural order. Protect freedom of will. And defend…" he thought of Donaar, and a painful affection blossomed within his heart, the meager muscle feeling too small to bear such emotion. "I'll defend the people I care about," he finished.

What ridiculous sentiments.

He grinned.

They felt right.

A mighty roar drew his eyes to the ceiling. With a ferocious slash of claws and tail, Donaar severed the webs holding him and plummeted toward the ground. On instinct Thriss threw out his hand as though somehow he might catch his betrothed by force of will alone. Red lines sparked in his vision and against all likelihood a single strand of webbing happened to waft into Donaar's grasp, letting him turn his fall into a controlled swing through the air along the line. With acrobatic flair the dragonborn flipped and landed gracefully, teeth bared and acid dripping from his fangs. The sight sent a burst of joy through Thriss' body.

Had he ever been so pleased to see someone?

In the corner of his eye, the spider moved.

Her legs twisted beneath her, compacting, flowing together in a blink from eight to two. Eyes gathered and merged, skin squirming in liquid fluidity, hair and ears sprouting from shifting flesh the color of tree bark. Before he could raise his blade in defense, the once-spider-now-wood-elf grabbed his wrist. She twisted it behind him until his fingers could not maintain their grip on the hilt. The dagger clattered to the ground and the woman kicked the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. With her hold on his arm she bent him backward, bringing a blade of green glass to his throat.

"One more step and I'll cut his throat!" the elf yelled at Donaar, who hissed in reply, but froze in place.

She pressed the edge of the scimitar to his skin and growled in his ear, "Alright, _drow_ , tell me what _you_ would know about the _natural order_ of things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of D&D arguments about what difference exists between a Warlock and a Paladin. I would suggest, for a person who has never heard either term, the two are effectively interchangeable. 
> 
> What a struggle this chapter was to wrangle! A special thank you to the people leaving comments on my work. Whenever I got demoralized on this story I re-read them to motivate myself. You're the best. <3


	10. Grandmother Night

_~ PRAN ~_

It took nearly all Pran's favors to get an audience with Grandmother Night. Eventually someone who knew a gal who knew a guy who had a cousin who had a sister gave them an address where they could find her.

"Passcode's 'Ieriyn,' though you didn't hear it from me," the informant said, once Pran handed over a hefty bag of coin and swore on Vars Melis' name that she'd never reveal who gave her this information. Without Thedral's brooding shadow hovering at her elbow, Pran might have abandoned the effort at the first setback, but she wanted to impress.

The drow woman wore mystery like a cloak, disappearing and reappearing as they walked down dark streets. Next to Thedral, Pran felt clumsy and awkward, too big and loud. She tip-toed, wanting to make her footsteps equally soundless and graceful, but tripped over a loose cobble and overturned an entire set of chairs, a table, and an umbrella outside a cute cafe. The only saving grace was the cafe was closed this time of night. Thedral didn't say anything, but as Pran picked herself back up, the quiet hung heavy with judgment.

They walked along the riverfront, softly lit by lamps at even intervals. In the wealthy upper quarters they passed well-appointed shops and prestigious restaurants. Inside at candle-lit tables couples laughed over romantic dinners for two. Graceful violin sonatas primed the night air for passionate confessions and daring acts of the heart. Pran sighed with longing. If only she could spend her evenings sharing a meal with someone special. She glanced over at Thedral, but the drow's gaze faced the cold water of the river, not the warm glow of the restaurant interiors.

Stone stairs took them to the lower and less reputable parts of the city, descending past each of the canal locks which kept trade thriving. Jinaar's river wasn't the only way to carry goods north, but if you wanted to get there by boat, you had to travel through. Building the canals had been a major turning point for her ancestors, transforming their territory from an unremarkable pitstop to a major trade hub.

"My family built these," she said. "I mean, not _personally._ That's commoner work. It was our idea though. My great-great-grandfather's, at least. Or was it uncle? Anyway, Blit'zens are very forward thinking…and…um…"

"How is this relevant to meeting Grandmother Night?" Thedral asked.

"W-well…" Pran scrambled to connect her boast to their mission. "The place we're going is along the river. Warehouse district. It, uh, it's where a lot of the boats stop before they enter the canals."

"I see. Is there a secret entrance your ancestors built?"

"N-no…? I just… thought you might like to know. I…like reading about history. And…stuff…" Pran inhaled a deep breath, pressing on. "Is there…anything you like to read about?"

Thedral kept walking, not even sparing a glance for her. Pran wondered if the spy had chosen to ignore her question because it was so stupid.

"Blueprints," Thedral said at last, surprising Pran.

"Blueprints? Huh. I think there are some of those in the Public Records Office? We could…I mean, I could show you, sometime. If you're interested."

"Public Records? Surely they're not available to just anyone?" Thedral said. "Where's the challenge in that?"

"Well, we could break in if you wanted," Pran joked. "I _do_ know the Captain of the Guard if we get caught."

"We won't," Thedral said, with grim confidence.

This _was_ a joke…right?

"There's the warehouse," Pran said, pointing out a large square building perched on the bank of the river. A few moored boats bobbed along the pier, the sleepy slap of the water against their wooden sides deceptively peaceful. Stacked crates tied down with netting formed pockets of shadow in the bright moonlight. A flare of orange flame sparked near the warehouse entrance and the potent odor of cheap tobacco wafted their direction, masking the reek of rotting fish haunting the lower quarters.

"Are you rea…dy…?" Pran trailed off, turning to look at Thedral and finding the alley behind her empty. She shook her head. "Spy. Of course. Uh…so…I guess I'll go in the front and you'll sneak in the back?" she said to the empty shadows, hoping Thedral would reply. Nothing. Pran nodded. "Right. Yeah. Good plan, Pran."

She took a deep breath, mustered all her royal swagger, and marched up to the warehouse entrance.

As Pran approached she made out the form of a halfling woman, sitting on some boxes with her legs propped up. Pran wrinkled her nose at the filthy bare feet and worn canvas breeches. A pipe extended out from a shapeless hat pulled low over the woman's face, from which she blew chunky snakes of smoke. Pran cleared her throat, then coughed as she inhaled some of the foul smelling cloud. The halfling glanced up, eyes sliding with slow deliberation up and down Pran's person, lingering on the fine cut of her clothes. Pran moved her claws protectively over her wallet and the sailor snorted.

"What's a fancy thing like you doing at the docks?" the halfling drawled. One calloused hand gripped the pipe while she cocked the other behind her head, lounging like she was posing for a seedy smut cover. With a crooked-toothed leer, she said, "Looking to slum it, m'Ladyship?"

Pran's jaw dropped in outrage. Did this commoner really just proposition her in such a vulgar manner?! Sure, she'd read stories like this, but those were titillating and deliciously taboo, with sweeping poetry and breathless adventure and impossibly gorgeous characters. Not grubby, stubby mammals with hairy pits and scarred arms and chipped toenails. The books also left out the smell and how dirty everything was. Pran fell momentarily speechless at the shocking dissonance between fiction and reality.

The woman cackled, "Pff, I ain't really offerin', you puffed up lizard, don't get your scales all scuffed about it." She spat and Pran danced out of the way of the foul missile. "Now piss off, ey? This's a bad part of town for someone as shiny as you."

"P-puffed up lizard? How dare y -- I can take care of myself!" Pran sputtered, reclaiming her voice. She loomed over the halfling sailor, more than twice the insolent commoner's size. "I will not be addressed so - so _rudely_!" she said, raising her voice. "Apologize or I'll--"

A low, rumbling growl doused her temper like a bucket of cold water. A massive dog with dark fur emerged from under one of the crates where he'd been resting, obscured by a rough blanket. The fur on the back of the beast's neck raised, jowls pulled back over bared teeth as the mastiff took a step forward and snarled.

"Easy Tobi," said a voice above her. Pran glanced upward and saw the glint of an arrowhead. On top of the stack of boxes crouched a halfling man, the dull green and brown of his leather armor blending into the netting at his feet. In his hands he drew a bow, leveled at her. His eerie gaze held a fey quality, as though he'd seen things far beyond this world. "I think it's time you move along," he said.

Pran swallowed. "But I have business here! I want to see the Grandmother."

The sailor and the ranger exchanged glances.

"Well, your granny ain't here. You drunk or somethin'? Need somebody t' walk you home?" the woman said, giving her a wink. Pran shuddered.

"No, that's not -- you know what I'm talking about. Not _my_ granny. _The_ Grandmother. Rosie Beestinger."

A long drag on the pipe. The sailor shot rich cotton from her lips. Pran's snoot stung and her eyes watered.

"Never heard of her," the sailor said.

"Oh for -- what was the word…Ieriyn! Ieriyn, you ever heard of that?" Pran huffed, claws on hips.

"You're here for a favor?" the man above said, surprised. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Well I _woulda_ if this -- this -- _hoodlum_ hadn't _propositioned_ me!" Pran exclaimed, with a furious gesture at the uncouth sailor.

"Oh, luv, what can I say? You looked the type," the halfling woman laughed.

"Wh-what type?" Pran asked, feeling her plates flutter.

"The type that's easy to mess with," she answered. She leaned around Tobi, the dog too huge for the halfling to reach over, and shoved open a small door just big enough for Pran to squeeze through. "There. In ya go. Mind your manners, or me an' Taurus an' Tobi'll give you a talking to."

Glowing orbs bobbed around the room, magic lights in lieu of candle flame or torches. Boxes and barrels stacked in the center formed a towering edifice almost touching the roof. At the very top perched a padded chair, its knobby wooden legs tied down for stability. Empty, for now, but the room around the throne was not. The inside of the building buzzed like a hive with all manner of people, most in humble clothing of working class folk. Halflings made up the majority of the gathered throng, but not entirely.

"No, Crackle, you've got to blow through it," said a warm baritone voice. Pran peeked around a frayed sheet of old canvas hung from an overhead beam to discover a sight not even her storybook authors thought to imagine. Two strange figures sat side by side, one blue-skinned and well dressed, the other obscured rags. The man's cerulean complexion wasn't so strange, not since Pran got used to Thedral and Thriss. It wasn't the pointed ears or the long gangly legs that surprised her either. The horns though? That was new. Sprouting right out of his brow. He wore white robes and sat perched on a wooden crate, a walking stick and shield propped next to him. In his hands he held a recorder, which he blew on to produce a soft, low note. "There, like that, see?" he said to his companion.

Pran tore her eyes away from the demonic visage to spare a glance at the ratty lump of rags next to him, only to feel her jaw drop. Instead of a head, a normal mammal or draconic head, there was…a bird? A massive black beak protruded from underneath the creature's tattered hood. It clamped around a tiny metal whistle, gripped between leathery claws. A huff of air through the beak yielded no sound. "Uuaahh!" it wailed, like a crying babe, and held the whistle up to the demon man. "There, like that, see?" the bird creature said, but with the other person's voice.

"Huh. Can't get a seal on it? Maybe if we held it against your nose…?" he trailed off, glancing over his shoulder. Pran looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. A chuckle brought her attention back as a piece of paper was pressed into her hands.

"I'm afraid I don't perform after hours, but if you're looking for entertainment, try the circus," the horned man said. Pran glanced down at the pamphlet, which advertised music, thrills, and spectacles. The demon winked a bright eye at her. "I'm EZ Money," he said. "You'll understand why if you hear me play."

"I - uh - Thank you…?" Pran replied.

"Sure. Now, if you don't mind, Crackle's a bit shy and, well, between you and me…" he leaned in and whispered, "I've got no idea what that magic whistle does." He patted her on the shoulder. "Best keep some distance."

"O…kay…" Pran clutched the paper to her chest and allowed herself to be turned around and pushed away. A burst of laughter drew her attention to a crowd of halflings sitting on the floor like children around a puppet show. Leaping from box to box with dramatic flourishes, a halfling woman with bright red hair and deep green eyes brandished a dagger, fighting off imaginary foes.

"There I was, six of me best mates dead and Captain Tusktooth, the blaggard, gots me dead t' rights. Not t' mention 'is pet kraken has its mitts -- all eight of 'em -- on me ship, ready t' tear it asunder!" she declared, with a dramatic storyteller cadence. As Pran watched, entranced, the woman threw herself against one of the crates as though held at sword point, the hand with the dagger pressed up against the wood, the other pinned behind her back. The magic lights danced over her green-lensed goggles and caught the scales sewn into her leather cape. "It looked t' be the end of yer ol' pal Lily Beestinger. But did I surrender?"

"No!" shouted the crowd, like this was a game they'd all played before.

"And you know whose voice I heard in me head?" she asked them, rising in volume.

"The Grandmother!" they called back, raising flasks and mugs, clinking them together.

"Tha's right! And you know what she told me?" the woman, Lily, shouted.

" _Always carry two knives!_ " hollered the crowd in response, and from behind her back Lily pulled a second dagger, stabbing it forward in the air.

"Down went the villain! Right into the briny deeps!" Lily declared, kicking out as though shoving someone over a railing. The crowd cheered.

"What about the kraken?" a heckler called out, her hair the same bright red as the storyteller. At first Pran thought the heckler leaned against a pillow of white fur, but at the sound of her voice, the lump shifted and the head of a huge white wolf poked up from among the crowd. None of the gathered halflings seemed afraid of the monster in their midst.

Lily waved impatiently, "I'm gettin' there, Cinder, geez! Give a girl some room, would ya?"

"No stage large enough for this story," Cinder replied, "Since it gets bigger every time!"

Lily huffed, though there wasn't much heat to it. "Oh? Think you can top it?" she challenged. "Maybe one of your hunting stories? How big was that buck again?" She held out her hands, about a foot of space between them. "Was it…this big? No, wait," she moved her hands farther apart. "Maybe thiiiiiis big? I dunno, Blanca, do you remember?"

The wolf sneezed and everyone laughed. A shrieking whistle interrupted them, followed by explosive _BANG_ as a burst of smoke and colored lights shot out from the corner.

"We figured out the whistle!" coughed EZ Money, waving away glittering clouds of sparkling dust.

"We figured out the whistle!" repeated Crackle, in the exact same voice.

A few chuckles and grumbles met this explanation as daggers, swords, and hand axes returned to sheathes. Conversations started up again and the two red-headed women returned to their friendly ribbing. Pran's anxious nerves took longer to settle. She looked around the rafters and boxes, trying to locate Thedral. Had the spy made it inside?

The lights went out all at once, leaving the windowless warehouse as dark as her ancestor's tomb. Pran crumpled the pamphlet in her hand, shifting from foot to foot. A hush settled on the noisy crowd, expectant.

White light burst overhead. When Pran blinked away the after image, the chair at the top of the pile no longer stood empty. An old halfling, clad in a lavender shawl, sat there.

"Hello my dears. It's so good to see you all," she said, her voice rasping with age, but echoing off the sides of the warehouse with power. She leaned forward, shrewd gray-blue eyes glittering. "I know you've got troubles, but don't worry. Grandmother Rosie'll take care of everything."

At the base of the pile of crates stood a stocky dwarf with a well-trimmed beard clad in dark grey clothes. He bowed his head to Grandmother Night and tucked a ledger underneath his arm before clapping his hands twice with crisp authority. "Favor seekers form a line!" he commanded. Everyone moved at once, people sprinting to place themselves at the head of the gathered throng. Pran heard Taurus' voice in the darkness and saw Tobi herding people, forming them into a more ordered queue. In the milieu Pran spotted the sailor from the door and leaned down to block the halfling's path.

"Um, I'm not sure you realize this, but I'm kinda important," Pran said. "Is there a VIP line somewhere? You know, for people with problems that actually matter?"

The sailor sucked on crooked teeth, knocking ash from her pipe. "Oh, sure, sure, course there is. C'mon then." The filthy woman grabbed Pran's hand and pulled her forward, forcing her to follow bent over. When Pran looked up, she found herself deposited at the very end of the line.

"But--!" Pran protested.

The sailor sneered at her. "Told you t' mind your manners, puffed up lizard. Now wait your turn and have your token of affection ready."

"My what?" Pran asked, but the sailor moved on without answering. Several other petitioners looked back at her, a mixture of scorn and pity on their faces. She felt her acid sacks inflate with embarrassment. Enough was enough!

"Don't you know who I _am?_ " Pran shouted. As one, every eye in the place turned on her. A few people in the line tried to hush her with a warning hiss, but Pran was a princess. She would not be shushed! With bold steps she pressed forward, bowling over anyone who didn't move out of the way. Most of them barely came up to her thighs anyway. After the first few got flung to the side, the rest wisened up. The crowd parted, giving her a clear lane of access to Grandmother Night. Pran's step faltered as she noticed Taurus at Rosie's side, his bow at the ready, but the old halfling stayed his hand. At least _somebody_ in this place had some sense.

The dwarf stepped in front of her as she reached the bottom of the makeshift dais.

"That's far enough," he said. "We've rules here, and you've already broken half of them."

Pran lifted her snoot up, proud and superior. "I am Princess Pran Blit'zen!" she declared, pleased to hear her court-trained voice fill the space. "I demand a private audience!"

"Demand?" the old woman chuckled, but it sounded sinister instead of merry. Pran felt a chill run through her, as though she'd displeased mother. "No, I don't think so," Grandmother Night said. "Why should I indulge a spoiled child butting in on family business?"

With blur of motion, Thedral appeared at Rosie's left shoulder, her dagger held against the Grandmother's throat. The crowd gasped.

"Because if you don't," the spy said, "I'll kill you."

* * *

_~ THEDRAL ~_

"You sound _very_ young, dear," the old woman said, "So I'm giving you one chance to walk away."

Thedral almost laughed. She'd never seen a Matriarch so feeble and small. Perhaps this passed for leadership among halflings, but drow would never permit a weak crone to hold a position of power. The instant she saw the ancient woman, Thedral decided to claim the title of Grandmother Night as her own. Then she'd have all the lackeys required to find her missing brother.

Simple.

She pressed the blade against dry, papery skin. If this was the Underdark, she'd have already stabbed the old woman, but the rules were different on the surface world. So far she kept Pran as her ally, but Thedral suspected a quick and efficient kill would not impress the dragonborn the way it would a drow. The Blit'zen family liked to talk. So Thedral tried words first, for her companion's sake.

"Do you yield?" she growled.

"No," the old woman replied.

Well, so much for words.

Thedral yanked the blade across the wrinkled throat, but the halfling dissipated into shadow. Before Thedral could move she felt the impact of two sharp knuckles in the flesh of her haunches. The drow huffed with amusement at such weak strikes. Her butt cheeks were hardly vulnerable regions! No vital organs or arteries...or…

She…couldn't feel her legs.

Thedral fell forward, clinging to the back of the chair as her entire lower body went numb and boneless beneath her. She stabbed one of her daggers into the fabric for additional leverage, clinging to it. Another waft of shadow and suddenly the halfling balanced on top of the chair, her feet even with Thedral's eyes. Before the drow could dodge out of the way those tiny slipper-clad weapons of war connected with her head.

Thedral's body flew off the mound of crates, the moment slowed by shock. Weightless, she arced through the air, a perfect view of the throne suspended in soundless clarity. Grandmother Night perched on the narrow chair back as effortlessly as she might on solid ground, her expression smug. Then their eyes met. The old woman’s eyes widened, her mouth mouth parting in surprise and recognition. The expression vanished quickly, turning suspicious and calculating.

Time resumed as Thedral's shoulder impacted with a box halfway down, hearing it splinter beneath her. She bounced off, tumbling once more into the air, and braced for impact with the ground.

"I gotcha! I gotcha!" Pran shouted, and instead of slamming into the hard-packed floor, claws caught Thedral, cushioning the fall. The massive dragonborn swung the drow's slighter form around, diffusing the momentum and maintaining balance with her tail. She held Thedral in her muscular arms, brushing back a loose strand of silver hair from her face.

"Hey, you okay?" Pran asked.

Thedral felt too dazed to reply. Her vision swam and Pran seemed to glow, sparkles of light glinting off her polished scales.

Behind Pran's shoulder, Rosie Beestinger materialized in the shadows above, plummeting toward them both.

"Look out!" Thedral shouted, pointing. She expected Pran to run, toss her away, leave her to her fate, but instead the dragonborn dropped in a protective crouch, curling her large body around Thedral's smaller one. Was Pran really prepared to take a blow on Thedral's behalf? Thedral braced for impact and found herself worried for someone other than herself.

What was happening to her?

The awaited strike never came. Thedral felt rather than saw Pran glance around.

"Well? Aren't you going to apologize?" Rosie asked, the old woman's voice muffled by Pran's clothing and enveloping arms. The neck of the dragonborn's shirt hung open in front of Thedral's face, exposing interlocking scales. They were so pretty up close, intricate patterns formed around thick bands of muscle. What did they feel like? Still half senseless from the blow to the head, her fingers ghosted along Pran's collarbone, thumb bobbing over the textured scales. Pran's arms tightened around her.

"Please don't hurt Thedral, Grandmother Night. Things are different where she's from --" Pran said, her voice cracking.

"I'm quite aware of how things are in the Underdark, thank you. That's not what _you_ have to apologize for," Rosie interrupted.

"Me? What did I d...? Uh…I mean…sorry?" Pran squeaked. Thedral curled up in a smaller ball, imagining the Grand Matron's dire glare.

"For…?" Grandmother Night prompted.

"F-for…being…rude. And, um, not following the rules, like that dwarf said? And not bringing a token thingy. And - and - um - being loud I guess? I dunno, are there other things? What else do you want me to say??" Pran's voice became increasingly desperate.

A chuckle. It seemed the Grand Matron found Pran's prattle amusing rather than annoying. At least one of them might survive this encounter.

"That will do. Now, let's see what your friend has to say for herself."

Pran's arms hesitantly uncurled from around Thedral's body. A brief pang of regret tightened Thedral's shoulders. It had been…nice…to be in Pran's embrace. Safe. As though the world would never reach her and she could just…relax.

She shook her head, banishing the last foolish thoughts created by the Grand Matron's blow. Head trauma. This was head trauma talking.

Thedral crawled out from under Pran's protection, pressing her face into the dirt as she groveled for her life. Pran's offense against Grandmother Night's court was bad enough, but Thedral's bungled assassination was far worse. If she escaped with her life, it would be a miracle.

"I beg of you, Grand Matron, spare me. I am but a worm compared to your strength and power!" she said, hoping the flattery might appeal.

"And?" the old woman's voice cut a cold line of dread down Thedral's spine.

"And I acknowledge your superiority! You are the uncontested Mistress of your court! My -- my house is but a -- a miserable pebble in comparison! That’s why we came to you, to seek your -- your favor for my lowly brother. _Please_!" Thedral gasped, panic constricting her throat, drowning in the looming threat of her death.

" _And?"_ Rosie said, the press of her shadow on Thedral's back a suffocating weight. The end was near. Sweat dripped off Thedral's forehead. She was a failure after all, just like Matron Mother always said, and this was the proof. Couldn't save Thriss, couldn't even save herself.

The sharp end of Pran's elbow dug into Thedral's ribs. " _Say you're sorry,"_ the dragonborn hissed, in a whisper so loud everyone in the room must have heard it.

"And…I'm…sorry?" Thedral added, confused.

Rosie laughed. "Always so _dramatic_ , you drow. My goodness. Stand up you two, stand up."

Next to her, Pran rose, dragging Thedral up with a hand under her arm. Thedral swayed, gaze averted.

Rosie snapped her fingers. "Eyes on me, dear. That's it. There you go. You mentioned a brother? He wouldn't happen to be named Thriss, would he?"

Thedral smoothed her expression. "Yes, Grand Matron."

"You could learn something from him. He's _much_ more polite."

Thedral bit back her objection to the idea that a _boy_ could teach her _anything_ and only replied, "Yes, Grand Matron."

"Wait, Thriss is your _brother?_ " Pran exclaimed. "Why didn't you say something?"

"It…didn't seem relevant," Thedral said.

"I didn't keep any secrets from you," Pran pouted, hurt. Thedral felt a stab of guilt. She balled her hands into fists. What was she supposed to do, volunteer information?

"Tch!" Rosie clucked in disapproval. "Sounds like I'm not the only one owed an apology, hmm?"

Thedral twitched under the combined power of their expectant looks.

"I am...sorry…for that too," she said, stiffly. "I guess."

"Aw, I forgive you," Pran replied, hooking an arm around Thedral's shoulder and pulling her close in a one-armed hug. "After all, we're friends now."

Thedral squirmed in Pran's grip, remembering the false friendship Donaar's voice imposed on her will. "I don't have friends," she protested.

"Well, when our brothers get married, we'll be family too."

Thedral didn't have a counter to that, so she endured the ongoing hug in silence. How long were hugs supposed to last, anyway? This one seemed very long. Thedral supposed it wasn't _so_ bad.

Tearing fabric drew Thedral's eyes upward. Tauraus yanked her embedded dagger from the chair back and slid down the stack of boxes, handing the blade to the dwarf. The bearded man turned piercing green eyes in her direction as he held the knife, murderous. Rosie waved him over, holding out her hand. He gave her the weapon with a deep frown.

"Thank you, Bonsen," she said. "Collect tokens and record the favors people are asking for. I'll take care of these two in the back. Shouldn't be long, but you know how impatient people are. Wouldn't want anybody else getting ideas tonight."

"Right" Bonsen replied, and then jerked his head at Taurus. "Go with Grandmother won't you?"

"Yes Uncle," Taurus replied, summoning his dog to his side with a short whistle. The massive beast bounded over, sniffing the air, ears twitching.

"That won't be needed," Rosie said, patting Bonsen on the arm.

The dwarf shot another glare at Thedral, "Not to talk out of turn but…she's a drow, Grandmother. Can't trust their kind," he said.

"Nonsense!" Rosie exclaimed, merry and cheerful. She turned a smile in their direction, eyes wide and open, but the expression was dark and deep as a chasm. A yawning fear opened up in Thedral's stomach and her entire body broke out in goosebumps. "These two won't cause any trouble…will you dears?"

"No Grand Matron!" Thedral said, breathless, feeling like a child about to endure her first punishment. The scars of old lashes stung on her shoulders with the phantom pain of past discipline.

"Hrmf!" the dwarf replied, not sounding the least bit convinced. He swiveled on his heel and began barking orders at the crowd. Taurus nodded to Grandmother Night and went to help his Uncle. Rosie headed toward the back of the warehouse, Pran and Thedral following at a respectful distance. Even Pran seemed subdued. Thedral tried not to dwell on what awaited them. Surely if Rosie wanted to make an example of them, she would have done it in front of her followers? No reason to take them behind closed doors to execute them. Or torture them. Or...

She pulled her braid out from under her hood, tugging at it in an old helpless habit as she tried to soothe her fraying nerves. She hadn't felt this helpless since she was a little girl.

_Get yourself together, Thedral._

Pran's heavy claw landed on her shoulder. Thedral flinched, hunching over as she looked up at the taller dragonborn.

"You sure you're okay?" Pran asked.

"Fine, I'm fine," Thedral said, but her fingers continued to clutch the braid, wringing it.

"I… _I like your hair,_ " Pran said in a fumbling rush, then looked away with an odd little laugh.

Thedral felt her cheeks warm. "What? No. It's stupid," she said, and then continued, unable to stop herself. "I should cut it. A weakness. Too easy to grab. Even Thriss is more sensible about his hair and I'm just --"

Pran laid her scaled hand over Thedral's own, gently prying her tense fingers off the braid and smoothing a few loose hairs behind Thedral's ears.

"I like your hair," the dragonborn royal repeated, and all the air went out of Thedral's lungs.

She realized they'd stopped walking and glanced down. Rosie leaned against a small door, arms crossed, watching them.

"Don't stop on my account," Rosie said.

Thedral stepped back, feeling her entire face turn a brilliant lavender. Rosie tutted with disappointment.

"And here I thought you two were gonna kiss," she said, opening the door to a small office filled with halfing-sized furniture. Two chairs were set in front of a desk, with a third behind it. Papers and maps pinned to the wall marked out the river ways and detailed ship manifests. Rosie hopped over the desk and into the largest, most comfortable chair. "How would that even work?" she said, eying them both. "I mean, with that big dragonborn snout --"

"It's a snoot," Pran corrected. Rosie raised eyebrows at her and Pran added, "Uh, ma'am."

"We're not here to talk about that!" Thedral exclaimed, even as her brain ignored her bidding and began picturing how a kiss between a drow and dragonborn might function. Would tongue be involved somehow? Thedral sat down heavily in one of the tiny chairs, burying her burning face in her hands. Why couldn't she stop thinking about this? She _needed_ to stop thinking about this! She'd never wondered about how kissing might feel with drow boys, so why in Lolth's name would she be thinking about Pran's lips and teeth and tongue and -- and -- !!!

Rosie smirked at her knowingly. Thedral felt moments away from bursting into flames. Her hands returned to her braid, remembered Pran's fingers over her own, and dropped it again like a hot coal.

"MY BROTHER IS MISSING," she blurted out, anything to move on from the agony of these uncomfortable thoughts.

"Mine too!" Pran added quickly.

"Missing?" Rosie's mischievous grin vanished, replaced by concern and then grim anger. " _Damn._ This is why you don't let trouble walk away. Every time…"

"What do you mean?" Pran asked.

Rosie tapped the flat of Thedral's dagger against her palm, scowling. "A platinum dragonborn caused trouble at one of my grandchildren's establishments last night. Started a fight with your brother."

"A platinum? Did you get his name?" Pran's voice held an acidic edge.

"No, but I'd lay good odds on him being royalty," Rosie said.

" _Shimmerscale_ ," Pran growled, sacks of acid inflating at the back of her head. Thedral remembered Pran's fury at being stood up by her future betrothed. A strange vindictive satisfaction settled in her chest at the idea that Pran regarded her platinum Prince with such scorn.

"Maybe," Rosie replied. "Donaar settled it peacefully enough. Sent the platinum packing. I warned those two boys to be careful, but…you always have to watch your back when you let someone walk away…" she said, with a meaningful look in Thedral's direction.

Thedral dipped her head respectfully. "I learned my lesson, Grand Matron. I owe you a great debt for sparing my life. If you help us I will owe you another."

"Help you? In what way?" Rosie asked.

"We've had guards out looking for our brothers since this morning, but there's no sign of them. We thought, with your…uh…unique network, you might stand a better chance of finding them," Pran said.

Rosie leaned back, assessing. She tossed the dagger over the desk and Thedral snatched it out of the air.

"It will cost you," Rosie said.

"Name it," Thedral answered.

"My business and my networks are my own," the old woman answered. "People rely on me because they can't turn to anyone else." She fixed her storm blue eyes on Pran. "Do you know what your guards get up to in the lower quarters?"

"Uh…guard…ing?" Pran guessed.

Rosie snorted. "Trouble," she replied, "But I take care of people that cause too much trouble. That's how we keep the peace around here. Except in the past few months someone's been disturbing that peace. Setting up their own operation. Moving in goods I do _not_ approve of."

"Like what?" Pran asked.

"Weapons. Gun powder. My people don't traffic in that kind of stuff, not unless it's honest work, and this is _not_ honest work. We've found and destroyed a few caches, but…" Rosie's voice grew thick with suppressed emotion. "…whoever's done this got some of my favorite grankids. Used their bodies to leave me _messages,"_ she hissed, barely containing her rage and grief. Thedral nodded with understanding. She'd seen her fair share of such messages. They were never easy to stomach.

"You want revenge," Thedral said.

"I want them _wiped out,_ " Rosie replied. "So when I find your brothers, and I _will_ find them, because nobody in the lower quarters will talk to _your_ dragonborn guards," she told Pran, "I expect you to come when I call you. Because I'm also going to find the vermin that hurt my kids, and when I do, you're going to help me take them down. Not for the glory of your royal house, or dragonborn pride, but for _me._ "

Thedral stood, pressing her fist with the dagger against her chest, and bowed low. "By the blood of my Matron Mother's house, I swear it."

"And you, Princess Pran?"

"If you can find them…Yeah. I swear. On…on Vars Melis' name."

Rosie nodded, curt and somber. "It's a deal."

Pran and Thedral didn't speak much on their way back to the castle. Rosie forbid them from joining the search, insisting her networks remained private and confidential. Thedral didn't dare oppose her. She hated leaving anything in another's hands, but she'd done all she could for Thriss. Nothing left but to wait and rely on the strength of the Grand Matron's forces. The weight of her brush with death hit full force as she trudged through Jinaar's streets, leaving her legs clumsy and weak. Her eyes stung as the vast uncapped sky above slowly lightened with the approach of daybreak. Thedral felt empty and cold, powerless as a newborn in this alien surface world.

"It's gonna be okay," Pran said, as they neared the palace. "You know that, right?"

Thedral glanced up, not sure if Pran was trying to convince Thedral or herself.

"…I wish I could believe that," Thedral replied.

Pran grinned, her many sharp teeth catching the light. "You'll see," she said, and unbidden Thedral once again wondered what it would be like to kiss those scales.

As the sun broke over the horizon they arrived at the gates and discovered a gilded carriage surrounded by guards blocking their path. Platinum dragonborn faced off with copper dragonborn, weapons drawn. The Captain of the Guard stood at the window of the carriage in a shouting match with the person inside.

"What is the meaning of this?" Pran's voice instantly silenced the crowd. Thedral stood straighter with vicarious pride. Every time Pran took command of a situation, Thedral felt a thrill. Nothing quite like watching a powerful woman throw her weight around. The copper princess strode forward wearing the arrogance of her station like a cape. "Captain, has my betrothed finally decided to show his face?"

The door to the carriage opened and a glittering dragonborn woman stepped out, her horns bedecked with gemstones and her eyes crackling with fury.

"You will _not_ marry Prince Shimmerscale. I forbid it!" the woman snarled.

"Who are you, his mother?" Pran sneered, snout tilted with lips curled to expose her teeth.

"I am Princess Sorsha," the platinum replied. "His _wife._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for volunteering your Beestingers to appear in this fic!
> 
> Taurus and Tobi belong to Loki364  
> EZ Money belongs to KassDriss  
> Crackle belongs to swimnrow  
> Lily and Cinder belong to LarryDarkmagic  
> Bonsen belongs to LS6789 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry Ryan. I know they're just scales. But damn it, this is a cheesy romantic comedy and I needed something to stand in for a blush. So fluttering plates it is. Maybe dragonborn evolved along a different vector in this universe? Yeah. Let's go with that. Good job team. We solved it. High Fives all around.


	11. Center of Attention

_~ DONAAR ~_

The two elves had been arguing for hours.

Eventually the wood elf got tired of holding her weird green knife against Thriss' throat and let him turn around so she could yell more directly in his face. Thriss yelled right back, or at least raised his voice, which felt like yelling coming from someone so soft-spoken. On the plus side, it seemed like maybe they'd decided not to kill each other.

The battle left Donaar fairly unscathed, but Thriss' face, back, and sides were a mess of bloody cuts, splatters of spider ichor, and bits of obsidian embedded in his skin. The brand new shirt Donaar bought less than a day earlier hung in unsalvageable tatters over Thriss' wiry frame. Donaar stepped forward, ready to lay on hands, but when he made contact Thriss shooed him away like an annoying fly. He remembered healing Thriss' concussion and how his fiance squirmed out of his hold like he couldn't stand Donaar's touch. The memory still stung.

"It'll scar, you know!" he snapped, but Thriss didn't acknowledge the words. Too busy with his new elf friend bickering about "the natural order," whatever that was.

"Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm tired. We've been walking forever down here. Chasing your god calling thing. I'm taking a nap and you better not wake me. Got it?"

No response from either of them. Like he wasn't even there.

Donaar stomped away with as much force as possible. He found a patch against the sloped wall free of shards and curled up there, checking on the egg to make sure it remained undamaged. The voices of the two bickering elves blended into a wash of white noise. Whatever. He'd get his eight and they'd get tired of their stupid argument and then regret not paying attention to him or asking what he thought because he'd be asleep and wouldn't answer any of their dumb questions.

Sleep came upon him quickly, but offered little rest. Spiders with the broken, stone face of Vars Melis chased him down narrow tunnels. He came to a nexus with five different exits, but whenever he tried to enter one, it turned into a different colored dragon mouth. Blue, red, black, green, white, each snapped down, nearly chomping him in two, until nothing but teeth gnashed before him and skittering spiders crowded from behind.

He awakened with a start.

"Look! This mushroom obeys the same laws here as it would in a surface forest," Thriss said, holding up a pale white growth under the woman's nose. "They follow identical natural functions!"

"Nothing is natural in this place," she scoffed.

Donaar groaned. How could they still be arguing?

At least Thriss heard him this time. The drow approached holding an armful of white and brown mushrooms.

"Are you hungry? These are safe to eat," Thriss said, taking a bite out of one and handing Donaar the leftover. Rude. Donaar wanted his own mushroom. He took a handful from the collection in Thriss' arms and downed them in a single bite.

"Where did you find these?" Donaar asked as he chewed.

"We did some foraging while you slept," Thriss said.

"We? You mean you both just left me here alone?"

"I needed to show her that the Ur's laws apply t--"

"What if something attacked me while you were gone? I can't believe you! It's like you don't care about me at all!" Donaar gulped another handful, taking a third before finishing his current mouthful, as though he could eat his feelings away.

Thriss caught his hand, eyes wide and fuzzy brow upturned with concern.

"I care about you," the drow said, then repeated the words, insistent. "I _care_ about _you_."

"Then why do you keep ignoring me?" Donaar snapped (it was definitely a snap, not a whine, because he was very angry and not hurt at all). He gestured to the long cut on Thriss' face. "You won't even let me heal you."

Thriss' thin fingers flitted up to his cheek, tracing the wound. "…Scars mark lessons," he said, as though that meant something. "This…I do not want to lose this."

"And all the other ones too?" Donaar gestured to the rest of Thriss' torso. The drow looked down at himself with growing surprise, like he'd forgotten he had a body and was only now discovering it.

"Oh…" he said.

"Yeah, 'oh,'" Donaar replied. "You're kinda a mess right now."

Thriss made a strange, lilting noise, like choking on a laugh. "Only right now? How generous."

"So can I heal those, or what?"

"I think…" Thriss struggled to remove the tattered linen, wincing as he did so, "…that the Ur…" Donaar lifted the fabric it so it wouldn't catch on any embedded chips of stone, "…would not care either way." They managed to extricate Thriss from the remains of the shirt, exposing criss-crossed cuts along his sides and chest.

"Turn around," Donaar instructed.

Thriss held the tattered shirt in his hands and followed Donaar's order without protest. Donaar sucked in a breath of dismay. A ruinous expanse of old scar tissue covered Thriss' shoulders and back. No wonder Thriss seemed so unperturbed by his current wounds. The tiny cuts left by the shards of stone were a drop in the bucket.

Donaar ran his fingers over one of the larger marks. Thriss twitched, but otherwise held still.

"…were these lessons too?" Donaar asked.

"Hmm. I am…a slow learner," Thriss replied. Donaar couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Either way it wasn't funny.

He gripped the largest of the protruding shards. "This'll hurt a little, but I'll fix it, okay?"

Thriss nodded and Donaar pulled. Clotted blood clung to the stone, the soft skin deforming until it parted and a fresh spill of red trickled down blue skin. No cry of pain from the drow, only a sharp inhale. Donaar tossed the sliver of obsidian away and pressed claws against the wound, willing the healing light of Vars Melis into the damaged flesh. Thriss sighed, shoulders relaxing the tiniest bit.

"The power of Vars Melis is…warm," Thriss said. "I don't know if I'll ever get used to it."

"Yeah, well, maybe don't get hurt so much and you won't have to," Donaar replied.

"The Ur is very different," Thriss said, voice low and shy.

"Ur? What's that?" Donaar asked, claws slowly pressing power into each cut, wiping the injuries away.

"The god who called me here. I have a lot to learn about them." Thriss paused as Donaar found another shard, bracing as he extricated the half inch wedge. Once removed the drow continued, hesitant. "Did you…hear my Oath?"

"I heard," Donaar replied, not sure what to make of it. Having somebody shout stuff as they made it up while their witness was cocooned on the ceiling wasn't exactly like any Paladin ceremony he'd been to before.

"I know I can't be a Paladin for Vars Melis, but I thought, for the Ur? Maybe this was wrong. In error. There are probably proper ways, how things are done, for a Paladin. Do you think what I said -- Does it count?" Thriss' shoulders jerked back and forth, his hands flowing through a series of gestures. That lost sound crept into his voice again, wistful and scared, but so hopeful.

Donaar wasn't sure how Paladins worked for other gods. He'd never met one. In that moment, he decided he didn't care. All that mattered was what he thought.

"Sure it counts, buddy," he said, patting Thriss' tense back gingerly, careful to avoid any remaining cuts.

A delighted little laugh fell from Thriss' lips. The drow glanced over his shoulder, smiling, and Donaar felt himself smile in return, a warm glow in his gut. Vars Melis approved. He made the right call.

"I think I got everything back here," Donaar said, looking over his handiwork. "Lemme see your sides."

Thriss dutifully rotated, still holding the mangled shirt.

"I'm sorry about your present," Thriss said, his fingers running over the damaged cloth. Then he gasped in shock, eyes wide.

"What?" Donaar glanced around, looking for another spider.

"Did you see that?" Thriss asked, pointing at the rags in his hands. Donaar studied the mangled shirt, but didn't notice anything.

"See what?"

"I -- This! -- Magic! I did magic! Look, look, I'll do it again," Thriss said, breathlessly stumbling over his words. The drow stared at the scraps of linen, running his fingers over the holes. Donaar blinked as the frayed strands flowed back together, mending the tears. Thriss met his eyes, face radiant with joy.

"I did _magic,_ " the drow said again. "I've been trying _my whole life_ to do magic! Am I -- is this -- wizardry?"

"Nah," Donaar grinned. "Pretty sure that's called being a Paladin."

Definitely the right call.

"Ugh, I'm really starting to regret not killing you," grumbled the wood elf, sitting across the domed room, totally ruining the moment.

"Yeah, about that, _why were you trying to kill us?"_ Donaar yelled back.

"Not you. Just _him,_ " the elf replied, with a gruff nod in Thriss' direction.

"Still not answering my question," Donaar said, moving in front of Thriss protectively. Couldn't let all his hard work patching up the drow go to waste.

"It's bad enough that _your_ people are constantly encroaching on the Grove, but making an alliance with one of _them?_ " the elf snarled, lips twisting to flash blunt teeth. "Once they get a foothold in your stinking city, they'll infest everything. They're like pine beetles. The EPA won't let them destroy the forest."

"I have no interest in destroying anything," Thriss said, peering around Donaar's side. "In fact, I'd like to learn from you."

A bark of a laugh met his statement. "Ha! Sure. Let me get this straight, drow, _you_ want to learn from a wood elf of the Enclave?"

"Yes. I keep telling you, there are common laws at work. How better to understand them than a wide range of study?"

She glared at Thriss for a long moment, arms crossed, finger tapping her elbow. "I don't believe you," she said at last.

"I commend your suspicion," Thriss replied, "but assure you in this matter it is unfounded. What must I do to convince you?"

"You can't," she replied.

"But--!"

"Okay, no, I'm not letting you two start up again," Donaar interrupted, a hand on Thriss' shoulder guiding him toward the exit. "I've got important things to do at home, so…"

"Yes, the Paladin Council," Thriss agreed. He actually bought that lie? Well, of course he did, Donaar was very convincing.

"Wait, I'm not done with you yet!" the elf protested.

"I don't care!" Donaar shouted over his shoulder, propelling Thriss along. As they walked, the drow shrugged back into the mended shirt, now free from stains or tears.

"We can't go back the same way," Thriss said. "Not after the cave-in. Let me…" he glanced around, eyes glazing over. Donaar tugged on his hand and Thriss blinked. "This way."

He strode forward, confident. The glowing gnome trotted next to them, the handsome tail making the light creature way more pleasant to look at. As they made their way down the tunnel, Donaar heard the scuff of boots behind them. He glanced back and spotted the woman following them.

"You don't know which way to go, do you?" he asked, smug.

"I -- I'm keeping my eye on you. Both of you," she said, defiant. "I could find my way back if I wanted."

"Uh huh," he replied.

After a moment of silence, she caught up to them, falling in line with a deep glower.

"You got a name?" Donaar asked. "Obviously you already know who I am. Prince Blit'zen. Kinda a big deal. This is Thriss."

Thriss waved. "Hello," he said with a smile, as if this elf hadn't tried to kill him hours before.

"Don't talk to me, _drow,_ " she snapped. Thriss tilted his head, still smiling, and returned to guiding them.

"Hey, he's gonna be royalty someday, so you better watch your mouth," Donaar said.

"It's fine, Donaar," Thriss replied.

"No, it isn't. You can't let people push you around if you're gonna be a Royal Consort. That's not how leadership works. You gotta show them who's boss."

"Okay," Thriss replied, voice mild and agreeable.

"No! Not okay! Disagree with me!" Donaar demanded.

"But I don't disagree with you," Thriss replied, confused.

"Doesn't matter! Whatever somebody else wants, you say the opposite."

"All right. You are wrong."

"Nuh uh! Why aren't you listening to me?"

"But -- I am? Sorry, you're right," Thriss said, hands fluttering apologetically.

"Of course I'm right."

"Of course you are."

"See? That's how it's done. _BAM_. Leadership."

"You really showed me," Thriss said.

"Hey, being a Prince doesn't come easy to everyone. You'll get it eventually."

"UGGH ARE WE THERE YET?" the elf groaned.

"What a whiner," Donaar said. "I guess that's what I'll call you. Whiny."

"That's _not_ my name!" the elf snapped.

"Is now, Whiny."

"I'm...Walnut. Call me Walnut."

"Whine-nut. Got it."

"You know what? I changed my mind, I'm gonna kill both of you," Whine-nut growled.

"Not unless you wanna be stuck down here forever," Donaar replied.

Another lilting, smothered laugh from Thriss made Donaar preen. The wood elf ground her teeth and fell into seething silence. This was more like it. Thriss obviously thought Donaar was funny and clever and Walnut had been cowed by his innate superiority.

Victory.

Shaking off the lingering dread of his bad dreams, he followed Thriss through the tunnels, steps light. When they got to the surface he'd call a Paladin Council, which would be even more impressive than a normal council, since it would be the first one and invented by him, Donaar. His brothers and sisters, and Thriss now too, would come up with a plan for dealing with these Tiamat cultists, save the day, and then everybody would tell him what a good job he did. Especially Vars Melis, who would be like, _I always knew you were cool, Donaar._

He'd be at the center of attention for everyone. Exactly where a Prince should be.

* * *

_~ THRISS ~_

Balancing perceptions between physical reality and the Ur's red strands seemed easier with a physical tether. Gripping the shard with the Ur's symbol allowed him to see an overlay of lines without becoming lost in them, although curiously holding Donaar's hand achieved a similar effect. Interesting. As they walked Thriss experimented, holding the focus, then touching Donaar, looking for divergences. He could make no statistically sound conclusions, but on a purely gut level, using Donaar to ground his consciousness made the path seem more…hopeful?

A very unscientific observation. Perhaps he required further study to uncover the full breadth of arcane secrets. Thus he needed to keep holding Donaar's hand. For the data.

It was also…somewhat pleasant. If he was thorough about cataloging his experiences.

Aided by the Ur, after a few hour's travel they climbed up a jutting ledge of rock and back into the buried city structures. Examining the walls, Thriss noticed a symbol he recognized. Six legs, a horizontal stripe, and wings. Just like in the catacombs under the abandoned cellar.

"Do you know what this is, Donaar?" he asked.

"Looks like a bee," the dragonborn replied after a cursory glance.

"Ssh!" Walnut hushed. "Listen!"

"I don't hear anything," Donaar declared, but despite his betrothed's bluster Thriss caught the sound of voices. He exchanged a glance with the wood elf, who nodded.

"There might be people up ahead," Thriss said, for the dragonborn's benefit.

" _Finally_ ," Donaar replied, striding forward.

"Wait!" Walnut hissed.

"I found a trapdoor in the ceiling!" Donaar called out, ignoring the wood elf's protests. As Thriss came to stand by his side, Donaar began pounding on the door. "Hey! Open up!"

The voices ceased and after a still moment the floorboards creaked overhead. With a squeak of hinges the trapdoor opened, a flood of light far brighter than Glowman's dim illumination stinging Thriss' eyes. As he squinted upward, he heard a familiar voice.

"Well, isn't this a surprise? Your sisters are looking for you, boys."

"Hello Rosie. A pleasure to see you again," he said with a bow.

"Such a sweetheart. Always so polite," Rosie replied. "You want cocoa? I bet you want cocoa. And who's your friend? Vern, be a dear and drop the ladder. These two have quite the tale to tell me."

The room above was cozy to the point of being cramped, the low ceiling and small furniture sized for halflings. An overstuffed couch sported numerous pillows and quilts, sitting catty-corner to a desk of old dark wood. Every wall and even part of the ceiling was covered with maps and charts for various cities, buildings, geographic regions, waterways, and even stars. Visible through a pass-through window Thriss saw a tiny kitchen, long stove pipe snaking upward and outward, venting to parts unknown.

Rosie plied them with hot drinks and pastries over a leisurely couple hours, drawing out details of their trip underground, first from Donaar's perspective (mostly because he insisted on it), then Thriss and Walnut. Donaar fell asleep in a nest of pillows on the floor halfway through Thriss' telling, his large dragonborn form too heavy for any of the tiny halfling chairs. As Walnut spoke with Rosie, Thriss located one of the quilts on the sofa, tucking it around Donaar's shoulders, even though it was far too small to cover most of his betrothed's body. He debated adding a second one, but felt Rosie's eyes on him, and opted instead to return to his chair. She grinned, cheeky, and his face flushed.

"So, you're a Paladin now? For the Ur? I haven't heard of that one. Though I don't go in for gods that much," Rosie said, placing another pastry on his plate, despite his claims of being full. "Eat up. Look at you, nothing but bones. Don't they feed you in the Underdark?"

Thriss declined to answer that, no, on occasion they didn't, and focused instead on the more important matter. "I don't know if anyone has heard of the Ur, but they are real. I have glimpsed their workings, the immutable laws by which the world functions. It is beautiful, Rosie. A natural order of such clean perfection --"

"I keep telling him, nothing is _clean_ about nature," Walnut said to Rosie. "He won't listen, but I guess I shouldn't expect anything from a drow boy."

"You're from the Enclave you said? Panex Anima, was it?" Rosie asked, pulling out a map of surface woods and mountains. She tapped a finger against a large expanse of forest southwest of Jinaar. "Hmm…yes, I think some of my grandkids have an arrangement with your people. Matriarchal grove? Sensible form of leadership, I've always thought. Although, men _do_ have their uses," Rosie said, with a wink his direction.

"If you say so," Walnut replied, gruff.

"Aren't the drow matriarchal too, Thriss?" Rosie continued, in a wheedling tone. "Why, you two have so much in common!"  

"No, we don't!" Walnut snapped, at the same moment Thriss said, "Yes, I think so."

Rosie chuckled. "Give Thriss a chance, dear. He might surprise you. There's a big world outside your grove."

Walnut sized him up. He grew very still and met her gaze. As a Paladin, he must exercise a little boldness. She snorted.

"Fine. I'll show you a few things before I make a final judgement. See if you can be taught. I won't coddle you though, so you better keep up."

"I will endeavor to learn quickly," he replied, with a tilt of his head.

"Aw, look at you, making friends," Rosie said, cherubic. She poured herself a cup of tea from a chipped pot, then added a dose of liquor from a silver flask. "If you ask me, Jinaar could use a few more friends these days. I mean, a Tiamat cult? I've heard of places getting overrun before. Nasty business. You mentioned finding a…blood sacrifice? Any remains? I've…had a few kids go missing lately…"

"There were some bones," Thriss replied, digging a small packet he'd assembled from his pocket.

"And you _kept_ them?" Walnut asked, aghast.

"No sense wasting them," Thriss replied. "There's good marrow in bones."

Rosie carefully took the collection from his hands, examining the bloodstained cloth wrapped around them.

"Did you…find this with the remains?" she said.

"The handkerchief? Yes. Why?"

She turned the corner over, revealing a mark stitched in yellow and black thread. Thriss recognized it as the symbol Donaar called a Bee.

"No reason," she said, with a shaky breath. Rosie cleared her throat, wrapping the packet back up. "I'll keep these, if you don't mind. Now, let's get you back to your sisters. We've got a lot to discuss."

Rosie called out to her assistant, Vern, and with his help they were each blindfolded and lead through a dizzying route of dusty tunnels and groaning stairs, Donaar complaining all the way. Thriss found with a little concentration he could access a new kind of sight, viewing matter beyond the cloth that obscured his eyes by focusing on the Ur's red lines. He spent a pleasant hour determining how far past the physical his eyes could see. At a certain distance the lines became too numerous, but based on his observations his perception extended at least a few stories above him, the world rendered in ghostly outlines of crimson strands. At the end he surrendered his blindfold regretfully, following Donaar and Walnut into a simple covered wagon pulled by the strangest beast of burden he'd ever encountered.

"Don't worry about old Coriander," Rosie assured him, patting the creature's neck. "She'll get us where we need to go." The animal released a rattling wheeze that shook its entire bony frame. "More importantly, nobody'll look at us twice in a get-up like this," Rosie said, hopping up to the driver's seat as Vern climbed into the back, pulling canvas curtains down to block out the noonday sun. The timid halfling reached into a bag and extracted a bright orange hat, misshapen along the brim from folding, vibrant green ribbon torn at the edges, and presented it to Thriss as the cart lurched into motion.

"Found this in the street not too far from the gambling house," Vern said. "Thought you might want it back."

Thriss accepted it with grave formality, surprised that he did, indeed, feel pleasure at the object's return. He attempted to straighten the brim and fluff the bow before placing the hat on his head.

Walnut scoffed, "You look ridiculous."

"Colors are great though," Donaar offered.

"You're both so very kind," Thriss replied, and smiled to himself as Donaar flashed a toothy grin and Walnut searched for the insult in his words.

When they reached the palace Thriss thought Donaar would have to present himself, but all he heard was Rosie sweetly say, "Hello Captain. You remember me?" and the cart barely stopped long enough for the gates to open. It seemed even royal security bowed to the unspoken raw power of the Grand Matron's gaze. Important to know, should he ever be foolish enough to earn her ire.

White gravel crunched under Coriander's laboring hooves as the cart came to an extended, shuddering halt. Walnut hopped out before the cart stopped moving, having spent much of the ride pacing and twitchy. She took in the opulent towers and manicured hedges with one long look, nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Pass," she said. "I'll find you later, _drow_ , so you better be ready." Without another word Walnut strode off toward the sprawling gardens, vanishing from sight the instant her feet touched the grass. Thriss caught a wriggle of ruddy fur as it snaked through a flowerbed. So many strange workings of the Ur he had yet to understand.

As Thriss and Donaar ascended the stairs, Rosie hopped down from the driver's seat, tossing Vern the reins. The young man waved goodbye and clucked to the horse, who sighed as though breathing itself presenting an ever insurmountable challenge. With rolling eyes Coriander fell into a weary half-hearted walk. Rosie caught up with Thriss just as Donaar threw the doors open, ignoring the stammering, wide-eyed guards.

"Hey I'm back! Don't everybody crowd in at once or anything," the dragonborn shouted to an empty hall. After a long moment, the seneschal poked his head around the corner.

"Ah, Prince Donaar. So glad to see you returned to us in good health. Your siblings are gathered in the White Drawing Room. If you and your…guests…" he looked over Rosie with a slight sneer, sniffing at Thriss' rumpled hat and gore-covered face, "…will be so kind as to follow me."

"The White one? That's pretty formal. I was only gone, like, a day. Guess they missed me," Donaar replied.

They followed the seneschal through the maze of gilded halls to tall double doors, carved with odd surface flowers painted in gold. The seneschall bowed and opened it before stepping away. Inside, all of Donaar's siblings gathered around their mother in a high back chair opposite a long white couch. A platinum dragonborn sat across from the Queen, back stiff and straight. The two women glared at one another, neither bothering to glance up.

"Be assured, Princess Sorsha, recovering your egg will be our highest priority, along with locating your wayward husband," the Queen said. "Although we are most displeased to have been so deceived. Particularly since the people of Skolla always remind us of how _honorable_ they are."

"I am similarly disappointed to learn Prince Shimmerscale disappeared so easily into your quaint little city, considering how _competent_ you coppers always claim to be," the platinum replied. "If any harm should come to my egg, I assure you our retribution will be --"

"Uh…you mean, this egg?" Donaar asked, fishing the fragile child out of its makeshift bjorn.

For a stunned moment, nobody moved.

"OH MY GOD _DONAAAAAR_!!" Pran squealed, flinging herself across the room to crush Donaar in a hug. Thriss secured the egg as it wobbled in Donaar's grasp under the force of Pran's affection. As the platinum dragonborn approached with dignified, deliberate steps, Thriss presented it to her with a bow. Wordless, the woman picked it up and carefully examined it, noting the damaged decoration.

"What happened here?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"The shell was cracked as we fled an attack, but Donaar called upon Vars Melis to heal the injury." Thriss assured her, peering through the egg along the Ur's red lines. "I believe she is healthy and unharmed."

"She?"

"The child within," he said. "As for the exterior, if I may…" he ran his fingers along the damaged plaster and scratched silver paint, willing the Ur's threads back into place as he had with his damaged shirt. At his touch, the egg's decorations returned to their former pristine condition. He heard a gasp and turned to see Thedral step out from a nearby pocket of shadow.

"Thriss, was that…?"

"Magic," he confirmed, unable to suppress a smile of pride. His sister stared in awe, but her expression shifted to fury when she noticed the dried blood and cut on his cheek.

" _Donaar!"_ she shouted, whirling on Thriss' fiance. "Y _ou promised you'd protect him!_ What happened to his face?"

"Hey! Don't look at me! I tried to fix it, but he was all, 'Buugh, scars teach lessons.' I healed everything else though, so you could show a little gratitude."

Thedral took a step toward Donaar, hand reaching for her dagger, but Thriss caught his sister's fingers with his own. She twitched, regarding him with an imperious frown at his impertinence. He thought about telling Thedral he cared about her wellbeing, that when he made his Oath to the Ur she was on the very short list of people he swore to protect, but he knew it would make no sense to her. It barely made sense to him.

I'm a Paladin now," he said instead. A statement just as nonsensical, but far less personal, and therefore safer for them both. Thedral extricated herself from Thriss' grasp, staring at him as though he'd lost his mind. Perhaps he had.

"Oh yeah, right, we should have a Paladin Council," Donaar said to his gathered family.

"A what?" Kamit said from her position by the window.

"You know, group meeting, Paladin Council. There's some stuff going on, bad Tiamat cult stuff, and we should do something about it."

"Tiamat?" the platinum dragonborn, Princess Sorsha, interrupted. "If that's so, I fear my husband is behind it. After he disappeared with our egg, I found a hidden chamber in his study full of forbidden books and an altar to the five-headed dragon. He was researching ancient cities which fell to her influence. I believe his false marriage proposal to you was a ruse to gain access to your city. Perhaps he thought the people of Vars Melis would be easier to sway than followers of Bahamut."

"A foolish assumption," Schlagur growled, coming to stand next to Kamit.

"Perhaps. The papers he left behind described a summoning ritual. I believe he stole our egg intending to sacrifice it."

"You think he'll come after it?" Nase asked, placing a hand on the back of his mother's chair.

Sorsha pulled several loose papers from a bag at her side. His interest piqued, Thriss moved to discretely read over her shoulder.

"The ritual requires the destruction of 'a symbol of hope in the service of spite'," Sorsha read, before throwing the pages down in disgust. "As the father he had easy access to our egg in Skolla, but I will not let my guard down again."

"Maybe we could use it to lure him out?" Pran said.

Sorsha wrapped protective claws around her egg, baring her teeth with a hiss. "Are you suggesting you use _my child_ _as_ _bait?_ " she snarled. "How _dare_ you!"

"How dare _I?_ _Your_ husband is the one who _lied_ to me and my family!" Pran shouted back. "Not to mention _humiliated_ me! You platinums think you're so much better than us, but you can't even keep track of your own eggs!"

"We could use something else?" Donaar offered.

"At least I _noticed_ something was wrong!" Sorsha snapped, ignoring Donaar's comment. "Shimmerscale's been infiltrating your city for months! Have you even noticed?"

"She has a point," Rosie interjected.

"And you are?" Schlagur sneered, looking down at the aged halfling with obvious disdain.

"Oh, just a concerned citizen," Rosie replied, leaning heavily against the arm rest of the sofa. She held one hand to her back as though it pained her, using the other to feel her way forward in an obvious display of false fragility. Thriss offered his hand, guiding her to where she could sit on the couch. She winked at him. "Why thank you, young man. Yes, I heard the Prince and his Betrothed were missing. Whole city's in a tizzy over it. So when I found them I brought them right away." She turned to look over her shoulder at Pran and Thedral. "I expect we're all quite invested in their safety, aren't we?"

"We're really grateful," Pran said, as Thedral gave a slow nod. Something unspoken passed between the three women, though Thriss wasn't sure what. Thedral flashed him a hand sign, _Explain later,_ confirming his suspicions.

Donaar began again, "Like I said --"

"Do you know how much time we wasted looking for you?" Kamit cut him off, tail tapping her calves in irritation. "How could you run off like that?"

"I didn't! There was a spider elf and Thriss heard a calling--!"

" _Take some responsibility for_ _once!"_ Kamit barked. "We can't watch you all the time like some baby! You have to learn how to take care of yourself."

"I _did_! And I found _a secret Tiamat cult thing_ that we should deal with!"

"Oh, don't act like you're going to do any work. We all know Schlagur and I will have to take care of this, like we _always_ do, because you'll get bored and run off again!"

"Enough!" the Queen's hand rose. Everyone froze as she stood. "Princess Sorsha, as promised your egg is returned to you. I expect you'll wish to remain in Jinaar until you can retrieve your husband?"

Princess Sorsha dipped her head in a pale show of respect. "Indeed."

"A Tiamat cult is a serious matter," the Queen continued. "We should come up with a plan to deal with it."

"We can declare a curfew on the lower quarters. Go house by house until we flush Shimmerscale out," Kamit said.

"That's not a good strategy," Donaar said, "It'll just piss off all the --"

"Blunt force isn't the answer," Schlagur said. "I've still got intelligence coming in. If this has been going on for months, there's probably patterns I can find now that I know what to look for."

Donaar opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything Pran jumped in. "You still don't know all the facts. There's a lot people aren't telling us! I don't think we can fully trust the guard."

"What? Why not?" Nase asked. Thriss saw Rosie meet Pran's eye and shake her head once.

"Uh, just, some things. I've noticed. Little things," Pran said. "I mean, isn't the Captain supposed to know about stuff in the city? Why haven't we heard about this?"

"Guys, that doesn't matter, I have an idea," Donaar said, but yet again the conversation moved on without him, the boisterous siblings talking over one another, drowning out every attempt to interject.

As he stood at Rosie's side, Thriss watched the confident shoulders of his fiance slowly fall, his normally loud and dominating voice growing softer with each failed attempt to join the conversation. As though this glittering, giant dragonborn became a pale phantom bit by bit before his eyes. He remembered the pain in the Paladin's voice when he asked, _Why do you keep ignoring me?_ Now he understood. In the Underdark, being overlooked kept Thriss alive. He long ago learned to keep his own council in the presence of others, to swallow his opinions and passions until they formed hard and bitter knots of unvoiced thoughts in his throat. He accepted it as necessary, desirable even, but seeing it happen to Donaar kindled a spark of anger in Thriss' belly.

"I have a question, Queen Mother," his voice rang out with such clarity and force for a moment he did not recognize it as his own. His body shook with suppressed feeling as he met the matriarch's eyes, but felt strangely insulated from her chill gaze, as though another person occupied his body. Someone who did not fear her power, or anything else.

"Yes, young Rah'Uuthli?" the Queen replied, a flicker of curiosity beneath the severe exterior. The siblings ceased their bickering. The room grew hushed.

"I am told things are different here, among your fine people, than in the Underdark. That men have rights and freedoms, just as women do. Is that true?" he asked.

"Yes," the Queen answered. "Dragonborn are far more enlightened when it comes to equality."

Rosie choked on a wheezing cough.

"So if I were to make a suggestion, it would carry just as much weight as Pran's? Or Kamit's?" Thriss asked.

"Of course it would," Pran said. Kamit nodded as well.

"I see. So if you'd extend such courtesy to me, a lowly boy from a drow household, why is it that you do not grant the same respect to Donaar? Surely, as a dragonborn Prince and Paladin, he has the right to be heard just as much as I? Or are things not as equal as you claim?"

An awkward silence. Kamit and Schlagur exchanged glances. Pran shuffled her feet. Nase grinned widely. One by one, the family turned their gaze on Donaar.

"Well, Donaar? What is it you have to say?" the Queen asked, with all the warmth a judge might use to issue a death sentence.

"I, uh, well…" Donaar swallowed, nervous as he took in the focused attention of his family.

Nase held up his hand by his shoulder in a show of support. Thriss mimicked the gesture. Donaar tilted his head back, straightening his spine, and returned the motion. They all completed the clap at the same time.

Thedral looked between them all with utter confusion. _Explain later,_ Thriss signed.

"Okay, so here's how I see it," Donaar said, striding to the middle of the room. "Hunting Shimmerscale down is a waste of time. He's set up in the city already and we don't know who his friends are. We're not going to win fighting on his turf and terms. We make him come to us, control what moves he can make, limit his options."

"Like a Glimmer game," Nase said.

"Right. Reduce the pieces he can work with. Pran's idea of drawing him out with bait isn't bad," Donaar continued. "But we're not putting a kid in danger. Too vulnerable. Can't defend itself if something goes wrong. Besides, we're better than that."

"Thank you," Sorsha said, settling next to Rosie on the couch. "So what do you plan on using instead?"

"Well…" Donaar looked around at his siblings, then turned to Thriss, the confidence he'd reclaimed fading a little. "I guess…" he gestured between them, and Thriss came to stand at his side. "Us?"

"You?" Kamit crossed her arms. "Why would they want you?"

"Donaar humiliated Shimmerscale already," Thriss offered. "I suspect revenge might appeal to him."

"And he needs to destroy something hopeful, right?" Donaar said. "You heard what Rosie said, about how people were worried about Thriss and me. Weddings are pretty hopeful, right?"

"Absolutely," Rosie said. "Especially if you play it up right. You're marrying a drow. Might make people think things can change around here. That they'll have more of a voice in the future. Don't you think so, Pran?"

"I mean, I don't know if I'd say _exactly_ that, but, um…we could…sorta…advertise it that way?" Pran replied.

"Careful dear. We should always make promises with the intention to keep them," Rosie said, the grandmotherly gravel gaining a sharp edge.

"Just as you say, Grand Matron," Thedral replied, with a respectful bow.

"There _is_ the Rite of Chatulio," Schlagur mused. "In recent years it's been by invitation only, but traditionally they opened the ball to the public as a chance for the common people to see their future rulers."

"That's a costume ball too!" Pran said, enthusiasm creeping into her voice. "No way Shimmerscale could resist that."

"Exactly. We make him think everything's fine, that we're not worried, but instead? We lay a trap, lure him in, and _BAM,"_ Donaar clacked his claws together. "Victory."

"And you, Thriss, have no problem with Donaar turning your sacred marriage rites into some sort of farce?" Kamit asked, skeptical.

"Oh, these are your sacred rites, not mine. As far as I'm concerned, everything we've done so far is a farce," Thriss replied.

"See? He's fine with it," Donaar added.

Kamit shook her head. "This is going to be a disaster," she said.

Nase grinned even wider. "I think it's going to be fun."

The Queen nodded. "Very well. Nase, see that the proper arrangements are made," she said, leaving the room, their audience concluded. As people broke off into groups, Thriss swept up the abandoned pages on the table detailing Shimmerscale's rituals and tucked them into his sleeve for later examination. Then he offered his arm to help Rosie off the couch.

"Oh, why thank you my dear. These old bones you know…" she said, theatrical, and slowly eased herself off the high seat as though each motion pained her, taking wobbly steps as Pran and Thedral approached.

"I had no idea you'd find them so quickly," Pran said in a dragonborn whisper. "It's barely lunchtime."

"Oh, I have my ways. A vast network. And a good dose of halfling luck," the old woman replied.

"It could have taken us days to find our way to the surface without Rosie," Thriss said. Thedral lashed out with her hand, striking him on the shoulder.

" _Grand Matron,_ " she hissed at him.

"Ah ah ah!" Rosie waggled her finger at Thedral. " _He_ gets to call me Roise. _You_ don't."

Thedral's jaw fell open and she stared at him goggle-eyed. Thriss shrugged. Rosie turned her attention to Pran.

"This costume ball, the Rite of Chatulio you called it? See that you coordinate with my people. Those troublemakers I told you about and your Prince Shimmerscale are one and the same. I want Beestingers on the staff, among the guests, part of the entertainment, everywhere. We'll take this cult down together." Rosie held out her tiny, wrinkled hand. Pran clasped it, then went to speak to Schlagur, Thedral trailing behind.

"Walk me outside, dear," Rosie said. Thriss glanced back at the room as they reached the door, spotting Donaar talking enthusiastically with Nase and Princess Sorsha. The dragonborn seemed back to his boisterous self. "I think you're good for this place, you know," Rosie remarked as they strolled through the halls, their pace much faster without witnesses. "You mix things up in the right ways."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Rosie. I am but a -- "

"Lowly drow boy? Maybe. And I'm a simple elderly halfling. _And_ a grandmother. _And_ a businesswoman. _And_ an _incredible_ lover. Speaking of, if you and your big handsome Prince ever need any tips, I have some _experience_ fitting together couples with, shall we say, _size differences_ …"

"That won't be necessary. It's…not a field I have much interest for."

"Oh? Well, the offer still stands. For you _or_ your sister."

"Thedral? Why would she…?"

"Ask her about Pran sometime, my dear. You'll see. My point is, a person can be a lot of things. Maybe you got used to thinking of yourself one way, but you're a Paladin of the Ur now. A Royal Consort in the future. Perhaps even someday an ally to the EPA or the common folk. A leader."

"Leadership seems to require being very…disagreeable."

"There are lots of ways to lead, Thriss. Take it from someone who knows. You'll find your own style. Besides, you didn't have much trouble standing up to the Queen in there…"

Thriss' stomach churned just thinking about it. The moment returned to him in a rush, the force of the Queen's matriarchal judgement pressing against his skin. A wave of prickling dizziness flooded his body.

"I can't believe I did that. I -- _hugghk_!" he suppressed a dry heave. "What was I thinking? Why -- _huughh_ \-- Just a moment. I'll be fine, I'll be f-- _huaahh_!" He leaned against the wall as his body broke out in a cold sweat and his throat constricted, air catching and burning in his chest. His heart sped so fast he could feel it throb in his neck.

Rosie made clucking noises and patted him on the back of the knees. "There there, just breathe sweetie," she said as he gulped and hiccuped through the backwash of nerves. "You're all right, you're -- Oooh no, use the vase, _the vase_! That's it, dear, just get it out. Get it alllllll out. Maybe…you're more of a 'lead from the shadows' type, eh?"

He wiped bile from his mouth and coughed. "Yes, maybe."

"Well, you'll figure it out. You did right by your boy, and that's what matters most. Standing by your own. People notice that."

"I'm not used to being noticed."

She laughed. "Well, they're going to see you whether you like it or not, now. My advice? You get to choose what face you wear. Only show what you want them to believe." She gave his knees a quick hug. "And always carry two knives," she added, before shoving open the doors and trotting into the blinding sun of a warm Jinaari afternoon.

Thriss shook his head, turning away from the light. His stomach refused to settle and he hunched over, feeling observed and exposed. Donaar enjoyed being seen. Thriss was not so sure he was ready for such attention.


	12. The Rite of Tyrangal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for:
> 
> \- Mental health spiral and suicidal thoughts
> 
> \- Cognitive disorders
> 
> \- Family feels and self-worth feels
> 
> \- Spiders, nightmares
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah. The subtitle to this chapter should probably just be: OOF.

_~ THRISS ~_

"This is dumb!" Donnar grunted as Kamit shoved him, trying to force him into his room. "It's -- get off! -- It's my plan! I should be -- grrrrah!" He dug the claws of his hands and feet into the doorframe and snapped his teeth in Kamit's face. "I should be in charge! Thriss, tell her!"

"Agreed," Thriss said, then danced back from an angry swipe of Kamit's tail.

"Even _Pran_ has more to do -- _whoof! --_ than me!" Donaar wheezed as Kamit hurled her shoulder into his gut.

" _Pran_ is in charge of _catering!"_ Kamit shouted. She slammed her foot into Donaar's stomach with a savage kick. The wood under his fingers splintered and gave way. He tumbled backward, tangling in a rug before fetching up against the four poster bed.

"Last I heard," she said, catching her breath, "she was hiring…a bunch of halflings… _Halflings!_ Can you imagine? They'll have to…use step ladders…just to serve us hors d'oeuvres."

Kamit leaned against battered doorway, keeping a wary eye on Donaar as he got to his feet.

" _You_ wanted to use your marriage rites as a trap for Shimmerscale, not me!" Kamit huffed. "Well, congratulations, that's what you're getting. And in case you've forgotten, there's two more before you get to have your costume ball."

Donaar groaned. "Can't we just skip them?"

Kamit folded her arms, tail tapping against her armored shins. "Rushing through them like this is indecent enough. These should take months, years even! Not days. Of course, if you just want to admit none of this matters to you and end this farce, that'd save me a lot of trouble. Is that what you want?"

Donaar glanced at Thriss, then at the floor. His tail twitched and he kicked at the rumpled rug. "…Whatever. We'll do your dumb rites."

Kamit turned a dour glare Thriss' way. "What about you? Still want to shackle yourself to _this_?" she jerked a stiff claw Donaar's direction.

Now it was Thriss' turn to look at the floor. People kept asking him what he wanted, as though it mattered. Was it a test? A trap? A week ago he would have thought so, but now suspected these dragonborn actually wished to know.

"May I enquire as to the nature of this next rite?" he asked, sidestepping the uncomfortable question.

"The Rite of Tyrangal," Kamit said, straightening as she warmed to her favored subject of tradition. "When the Rage struck, the wise copper dragon retreated into self-imposed exile. In this rite the betrothed follow her example, setting aside passion for contemplation. To consider what each _truly_ wants, and if they're ready to commit to the marriage. _Traditionally_ we'd travel to the mountain retreat for this purpose, but since it takes weeks to get there, it's been decided we should perform the ritual here…"

Kamit sneered, giving Thriss the impression that she'd been outvoted by her other siblings. He slowly shifted another step back.

"Each of you will be in seclusion for the day," Kamit said. Donaar groaned and she snapped at him, "If you were doing this the _right_ way, it'd be for a month!"

"But we still get lunch, right?" Donaar asked.

" _No!_ You're _supposed_ to be thinking about your _future!_ Not what's in your stomach!" Kamit slammed the door and shouted through it. " _I HAVE GUARDS WATCHING THIS DOOR, DONAAR! Open it even ONCE and that's it! Your stupid game is OVER. Got it?"_

A sulky silence met this pronouncement. Kamit banged on the door. "I _SAID --"_

"I heard you! Sheesh!" came the muffled reply.

Kamit nodded to the two guards standing at the end of the hall. They came forward, assuming stations on either side of the door.

"Tell me when he comes out," Kamit said. "It won't be long."

She turned a scornful look at Thriss and made a brusque gesture, indicating he should follow. He tilted his head in obedience and fell in step behind her, a sensible distance between him and her thrashing tail. They traveled toward his rooms in silence, or as silently as anyone could travel in the company of a stomping, armored dragonborn.

As they passed the main entrance, she said, "I know you think you're helping, but Donaar's ego doesn't need any encouragement. You'll just make him worse."

Thriss' first instinct was to agree, because if a drow woman used such a tone a man did not argue unless seeking death. Yet as he opened his mouth, he remembered Rosie's words. _You did right by your boy, and that's what matters most. Standing by your own._

"It is my understanding that a Royal Consort's role is to support their Royal. Is this not correct?" he asked, his voice mild even as his heart began to race in perverse excitement, the heady rush of gleeful defiance growing more sweet and addictive with each use.

Kamit grunted and stopped, turning to place hands on hips as she glared down at him. Fear prickled his skin, but he held her gaze, light-headed at his daring. After an agonizing and exhilarating moment, she scoffed and resumed walking.

"You were supposed to be a stabilizing influence," she grumbled, quiet enough that Thriss suspected she did not intend for him to hear her. Her tail smacked against her armored calves and she said in a loud, sullen voice, "I'm sure he's told you I'm a bully."

"Not at all," Thriss replied smoothly. In truth, Donaar hadn't spoken of his sister at all.

"You have to understand, I've had to be tough on him. _I'm_ the reason he can use a sword. _I'm_ the reason he qualified to be a Paladin. If I don't push him, he always gets bored and gives up. Without me, Donaar wouldn't have amounted to _anything_."

Did Thedral feel the same way about Thriss? His sister arranged this marriage for him in secret after the Matron Mother condemned him as a failure. This alliance was his last chance to prove himself valuable to the Rah'Uuthli family, worth something more than a blood sacrifice. Old insecurities trailed chill fingers over his shoulders and he shrunk away from them, drawing inward.

"I don't know how he's fooled you, but you think too much of him," Kamit said.

"Perhaps…"

His hand reached into his pocket, tracing the fresh, sharp stone edges of the Ur focus. Dancing sparks of red flickered in his vision like candlelight through a crystal. Donaar hated scraping his head on the tunnels and stumbling in the dark, but when Thriss told him about the Ur's calling, Donaar helped him follow it. Approved of him becoming a Paladin of the Ur.

After decades of trying, Thriss performed magic for the first time, enabled not by the machinations and threats of his family, but by the support of his fiance.

"Perhaps you think too little of him," he told Kamit.

A bark of ugly laughter. "You've known Donaar little more than a week. I've known him my whole life," Kamit replied. Her claws curled into fists, voice dropping to a grim, low growl. "He'll let you down."

Her conviction struck a fissure of doubt through him, cracks opening up in the soft, vulnerable confidence he'd accreted in the past few days. Unease trickled in, wearing at the loose sediment of his will. Awareness of his aching body reminded him that he'd not tranced for over forty hours. The wound on his cheek burned and itched, dried blood flaking from his face as he grimaced. His fingers stilled on the stone shard and the red lights vanished.

"The Donaar you describe does not sound like the one I have met," he said, more hesitant now. "He protects others, even though it is not required of him. He has a… _conscience_."

"He's always been softhearted," Kamit said, grudging and almost fond. Then she sighed. "It's not that he'll be unkind, Thriss. He won't mean to hurt you," she continued, voice growing rough with memory and old pain. "He probably won't even notice he's done it. But one day he'll disappoint you…" Kamit took a deep, shaky breath. "And it will break your heart."

They reached the door of his room. Kamit paused, regarding him with weary resignation. Her voice, normally loud and harsh, softened with pity.

"Maybe he acts like he's committed to this marriage now, but it won't last. He'll lose interest in it, and in you," Kamit told him. "And then where will you be?"

Thriss lowered his head, his boldness sloughing off like an ill-fitting coat, far too big for his slight frame. The submissive posture felt familiar, almost comforting, but cramped in a way he'd never experienced before. For a brief time, he'd forgotten who and what he was, letting himself believe he was…special. Worthy and wanted. Kamit's words dispelled those foolish delusions, like a flame parting cobwebs.

"I…thank you for your instruction, Princess Kamit," he said, bowing. He entered the room and Kamit shut the door firmly behind him.

Thriss stood in the threshold, paralyzed, as creeping hands of shame and doubt clawed their way up his body, holding him in place. Fingers of recrimination wormed through his guts, seized his lungs, wrapped around his throat as he recalled the past few days.

What had he been _thinking?_

Renouncing his goddess of eighty years, proclaiming himself a _K'hil,_ involving himself in surface politics he barely understood, and _lecturing a_ _Matron Mother in her own house_? The cascade of foolish decisions pummeled him, casting everything he'd done in stark, unforgiving shadows. He must be mad! Insanity seemed the only logical explanation for his outrageous behavior. He followed the call of a god he could not even name, sworn Oaths of sentimental nonsense to it in a fit of frenzy! The entire time he suffered from visions, collapsed in pain, and bled from the nose, all clear signs of some physical ailment, some damage in the brain. Yet despite witnessing multiple versions of himself flickering in time and space, he never even thought to question the obvious impossibility of it all.

Had any of it been real? Was he so delusional to believe an inconceivably vast god would take interest in _him_ of all people? Ludicrous!

He dug the Ur focus out of his pocket. No red lines appeared, no pull into the unknown. In the dim light of the room he saw only an inert chunk of rock with a silly symbol crudely scratched into its obsidian face. Thriss shuddered and for a moment saw two overlaying hands gripping the stone, one he recognized and another that felt too big, too grown, to be his own. The smaller hand looked insufficient to hold the blood and meat within it, skin swelling at the nails. A convulsion of his fingers sent the stone flying from his grasp, skidding across the floor and tumbling under the bed.

A desperate groan of need rasped from his throat, blood beating in his neck and face, pain in his left shoulder constricting his movements. He stumbled forward, chasing the stone, fumbling beneath covers until at last he clutched it once more, breathless and shaking. Kneeling, he leaned his head against the baseboard of the bed, holding the focus against his chest.

The memory of Donaar's arms around him filled trembling limbs with phantom warmth. Appalled, he realized a part of him even now longed for that animal, physical comfort. He grit his teeth against such weakness, his childish want perhaps the worst sin of all.

Mad and broken. Nothing else made any sense.

His forehead brushed against several boxes stacked on the bed, knocking one over. Black silk and lace, speckled with silver, tumbled from it. A card fluttered to the floor.

> _Something to surprise that big boy of yours._
> 
> _Enjoy your honeymoon, sweetie._
> 
> _\- Rosie Beestinger_

The moon, for the few nights he'd seen it, was more the color of bone than honey. Unless honey came in different hues than the amber syrup he'd been offered at the Blit'zen breakfast table. Did it change color? Or was a honeymoon another surface tradition? Some further rite the dragonborn expected him to perform?

Pocketing the stone talisman, he held the garment up, or tried to, unsure what strap went where. Perhaps this wrapped over a shoulder? Or, no, around a leg. Arcane circles held fewer secrets than this slippery froth of lace and gauze. At last he found a configuration he believed correct, pinching in either hand straps designed to encircle the neck and collarbones in artful patterns. Thriss stood, moving to the floor-length mirror, holding the clothing in front of himself.

Drow consorts often wore such things, but Thriss never anticipated being one of them. His clothing choices helped him disappear, not stand out. Imagining himself in court wearing such an outfit made his skin crawl, the eyes of strangers burning, evaluating him like a piece of meat and judging him more gristle and bone than flesh and fat.

He knew his form disgusted and disturbed Donaar. The dragonborn expressed as much on several occasions. Would Donaar want him if he dressed like this? Is this what the Prince expected in a Consort? Could lace and straps and silver clasps keep the notoriously fickle attention of his fiance?

Thriss didn't think so, and found this answer prompted a strange churning mixture of relief and despair. The idea of Donaar desiring his body as a means of sexual pleasure was distasteful, but the thought of being cast aside entirely…

Kamit was right, of course, but not for the reasons she thought. Donaar _would_ discard him eventually. No one could stay interested for long in a lowly drow boy like himself.

_Maybe you got used to thinking of yourself one way,_ he remembered Rosie saying, _but you're a Paladin of the Ur now. A Royal Consort in the future. Perhaps even someday an ally to the EPA or the common folk. A leader._

What did any of that mean? Did he want any of it?

With a growl of frustration, he tossed the sparkling garment away.

_Want._ In the Underdark his desires were simple. Don't die. Learn skills to justify your existence. Avoid punishment.

How quickly the surface complicated things! Filled his head with tantalizing illusions. A Paladin? An equal? Laughable and cruel, to dangle such sweet lies as if they could be truths. Like a foolish child, he'd nearly believed them. _Wanted_ to believe them still.

Isn't that where all desire led? To delusion, disappointment, and ruin? Better not to want at all, and only focus on what _must_ be done.

Fingers drifted once more to his pocket, tracing the cool stone glyph of the Ur. What about his Oath? The _Ku'nal_ must obey the strictures of their order, or become _K'hil._

If you could call a self-appointed Paladin _Ku'nal,_ and a congregation of one person an order.

The memory of all those other selves whispered in his ears, their worship of the Ur singular and yet infinite. Were they real? Or just manifestations of an unreliable, diseased mind? As he focused on them, the Ur's hum resonated through the soles of his feet, straightening his spine and buzzing through his limbs. The skin of his fingers felt fused to the stone in his pocket, warm like a hot coal he could not release. The voices grew louder, escaping the confines of memory to intrude on his present existence.

They bid him return to the boxes on the bed, pulling out the discarded clothes of spider silk from the day before. He drifted, his steps a distant vibration, the sensation of cloth in his hands a feeble tether to physical sensation. In the hidden pocket of his cloak he found the dull knife from his father.

Moments after the Matron Mother left the house for an important trip, Thedral announced Thriss' engagement to a dragonborrn Prince. His sister shoved new clothes, these clothes, into his hands. She informed him that his bags were packed and instructed him to be ready to leave within the hour. As Thriss dressed, Tolokuthan knocked on his door, presenting the blade to his son. Of simple make with a leather wrapped handle, the blade's edge was barely sharp enough to cut. Holding it in his hand, Thriss found it badly balanced, the pommel far too heavy, the blade too short. Rah'Uuthli butter knives were more remarkable and dangerous. _A marriage gift,_ Tolokuthan said, the last words he spoke to Thriss, because at that moment Thedral entered, impatient to be on their way. Tolokuthan bowed with an appropriately contrite flurry of hand signs and left without a glance back.

What significance could this strange gift have?

As memories and questions tumbled through the back of his mind, the whispers moved Thriss' arm independent of his thoughts in a motion which felt practiced, as though performed uncountable times. As one, they raised the dagger in their hand, and tilted the blade toward their face.

The voices cut off abruptly, silence falling like a blow. Thriss came back to himself, gaze fixed on the dull knife inches from his eye. For a moment he could not recall how he'd gotten across the room or why he held the blade. Then he remembered what the voices wanted him to do with it. A manic, hysterical laugh burst from his lungs. He felt the remainder of his sanity fray, perceptions so clouded with doubt he lost all sense of certainty or reality. The past overlaid on the present, a swirling vortex of sensation. Thriss split between times, lost in the spaces of his own memory, a jumble of nonlinear people he suspected were himself, but could not confirm.

Swaying, he teetered on the edge of accepting his madness, weary of the fight against fracturing faculties. So tiring, to pretend he fit, that he had a place, a purpose. Holding himself in an uncomfortable shape which stifled him, but the world at best deemed barely tolerable. No matter how hard he tried to shrink himself, the effort was never enough. His existence itself was wrong and any space he took up too much.

At least if he had been insane all along there was an explanation for his struggles, a reason for eighty years of isolation and disappointment. A logical explanation for why he'd be desperate enough to concoct a god who, among its most improbable features, would actually want him.

What did it matter? Why shouldn't he do it, plunge this knife into his eye, deep into his brain? A choking giggle escaped him in a mania of cloying despair. Would it not be a perfectly reasonable action for a madman? If it killed him, why, his madness would no longer be a concern! If, on the other hand, the voices guided him true, then would he not have proof of intact faculties? Would not the world come into question, and not himself?

He only needed to commit fully to the act.

A half-blind madman wouldn't do at all.

Crowded by these clamoring thoughts and gripped by impulse, Thriss drew back his arm and with all his strength stabbed the blade into his eye.

The respite he anticipated did not come. At least, not in the way he expected.

He stood in a massive room, warm with cheery light from a fire crackling behind a wrought iron grate in the far wall. A deep breath filled his nose with the scents of incense, paper, ink, and tobacco. Instinctively he looked for his father, but the shadowed stacks of bookshelves stood empty, fading into darkness. Stumbling on shaky, awe-struck limbs, he took in the sprawling study, which combined elements of a library, lab, and cozy den.

Thriss jumped as a sheet of crisp paper crunched underfoot. Bending to pick it up, he recognized his father's elegant, cultured handwriting.

> _Thriss,_
> 
> _I thought I'd have time to do this properly. I'm sorry. If you're reading this, well done. I'm proud of you._
> 
> _This is my secret refuge. My retreat. And, if all else fails, my escape plan. I hope it will serve you in the same capacity, as it made my own marriage bearable. Well, this place, and you and your sister. There are exits to other places from here, though you will have to learn how to summon them. If all goes well, I will be able to join you once I craft a new key, though it will take some time to gather the necessary resources._
> 
> _I hope very much to see you again. I am, and always was, fond of you. More than is reasonable for a parent, if Lolth is to be believed, but I never did put much stock in her strictures. Ah, but I am wasting time. If -- when -- I see you again, we shall speak on such things. One K'hil to another._
> 
> _I care for you Thriss. More than I have words to say. Never forget that._
> 
> _\-- Your Father_

Blinking, tears dripped unbidden down his face and stung the cut in his cheek. As he regarded the hand which moments ago held the knife, emotion intruded on the numb shock enveloping him. Shame burned the back of his throat, though he did not know if it was because of what he'd meant to do or his relief at having failed. Other emotions bubbled up, despite his efforts to dismiss them as unwanted chemical responses, an overwhelming tumult of conflicting, baffling feelings breaching the banks of his self-control. 

He staggered to a nearby desk, scattering stacked papers and books, and disintegrated into exhausted, sobbing shards of broken self.

Awareness returned in an abrupt jerk. He found his head slumped over folded arms on the desk, eyes crusted over, throat sore, the cut on his cheek burning and swollen. His body, taxed beyond endurance, had slipped into unconsciousness. Groggy, he sat up. The warm weight of a heavy blanket fell from his shoulders. Who put it there?

"Father?" he called out, hoarse, but heard no reply.

Beneath his hand, his fingers found a mark burned into the desk's polished surface. Some sort of diagram, with a bit of string affixed by a nail through the center of the design. He traced it, wondering at its purpose. A scrap of velvet cloth on a hook by the desk stirred and floated to head height. For a stunned moment Thriss stared at it. "Hello?" he said at last. It bobbed in the air, almost like a bow.

A gurgle distracted him, the physical demands of his body intruding as his stomach cramped in hunger. He winced, embarrassed, and placed a hand over it as though he could shush the rude organ. It only grumbled and growled louder. When he looked up, the floating cloth was gone. A bump at his elbow startled him. He pulled back and the little velvet ghost placed a log on the desk, followed by a plate, onto which it began depositing and slicing mushrooms it extracted from the rotting wood. As Thriss watched it cleared the debris, fetched a small bottle, and drizzled a tasteful portion of dark sauce over the plate before arranging it just so on the desk, along with eating utensils and a folded cloth napkin. A glass and small bowl soon followed, each filled in turn by a pitcher of clear water drawn from an unknown source.

The table set, the little cloth square opened a drawer in the desk, extracting a jar of herbal scented salve and bandages. Dampening the cloth in the bowl of water, it dabbed at the cut on Thriss' cheek. The drow flinched at first from the unexpected contact, but did not protest. Soon the dull ache and heat of his injury faded under a numbing layer of medicinal paste. Its tasks completed, the little square of velvet floated back to its hook and went limp.

With a shrug, Thriss speared one of the mushrooms and ate it, savoring the squeak against his teeth and the salty sweet tang of the sauce. He flipped through the papers on the desk as he ate, skimming the contents of his father's research. Much of it was beyond the range of his studies, but he gathered most of the material was arcane in nature, with theology and natural philosophy mixed in. The phrase "That Which Endures" appeared several times and eventually Thriss deduced the title denoted some sort of god. _One K'hil to another,_ his father had written _._ Did Tolokuthan worship "That Which Endures"? Shoving the now empty plate away, Thriss focused all his attention on the documents, excitement building. A note near the bottom, written in his father's hand, made him pause, his mouth dropping open. Two symbols, side by side. Under the first "That Which Endures" and under the second…

"The Ur."

He pulled the talisman out of his pocket, holding the glyph up to the matching lines of ink.

It was real. It was all _real._

He wanted to know more.

On a hunch, Thriss touched the symbol and string on the desk. "Books. I want books on the Ur. _Please_ ," he said. The little cloth rose from its hook once more and drifted into the stacks of the library. With bated breath, Thriss awaited the unseen servant's return, leaping to his feet as it floated back carrying a single volume. He snatched it with a shout of joy and began to read, not even noticing when the velvet ghost returned with several more, stacking them gently on the desk at his elbow and clearing away the discarded plate.

The books provided scant insights, most references to the Ur buried in footnotes or tucked in diagrams, but even so every glimpse served as confirmation of the god's reality. Not a mad fabrication of a misfit's mind, but a genuine power. Lost to most, but real. He laughed in delight, unable to suppress his radiant joy. An old, deep knot of tension in his chest eased. The Ur existed. It guided him. _Wanted_ him.

He directed the velvet ghost to return the books to their proper places. It did so, and after completing this errand presented him with a mug of hot liquid, which Thriss did not ask for, but found he desired once the warm vessel was placed in his hands. Impressive initiative, this little servant. "Thank you, Velvet," he said to it, accepting the drink. It tasted bitter and earthy, fortifying in its heat and nostalgic in flavor as he recognized it as his father's favorite. Warming his hands on the smooth ceramic, he settled in a fine leather chair near the fire, which crackled ceaselessly, requiring no fuel from what he could see. Thriss felt the mysteries between him and his father thin in this place. The care and warmth Thriss only saw distant glimpses of suddenly grew close, embodied in this perfect gift. Thriss sat in the center of his father's soul, welcomed and embraced by it, and knew at least in this pocket of the world he belonged.

As he sipped the brew, Thriss mused he could remain here indefinitely, supping on mushrooms and reading to his heart's content. Perhaps learning to summon the exits his father wrote of, traveling to other places, learning more of the Ur and its workings. Endless possibilities opened before him, vague yet enticing. He could go far beyond the Matron Mother's reach, where not even the eight legs of Lloth could reach him. Freedom, purpose, and safety beckoned, if only he remained here.

Alone.

Unbidden, he thought of Donaar, who despite his station and numerous siblings seemed an exile in his own home. Could Thriss so easily abandon him?

Kamit's warnings squirmed across his shoulders, but he shook them away. Thedral and the Matron Mother thought they knew Thriss and Tolokuthan, but behind the facades of servile obedience hid champions of greater gods. Kamit had known Donaar longer, but did she know him better? Had she seen the dragon god's power within Donaar? Could she understand his heart? Could anyone?

Those mysteries might be worth further study. Who was Donaar Blit'zen, truly? What might he one day become, given opportunity and support? What might Thriss become, as a Paladin of the Ur? There was so much he did not know of the world, himself, and others. With the discovery of this place, an entire new facet of his father opened to him, vast and far beyond the subdued, cowed man he knew. What secrets could they share with each other, outside the confines of the Underdark?

A thread of worry intruded on his reflections. Before his sister's intervention, the Matron Mother intended to sacrifice Thriss to Lloth. Soon she would know of Thedral's deception and disobedience. With both her son and daughter out of reach, on whom would she turn her wrath?

His father built this place not only as a refuge, but a last resort. An escape plan he sacrificed for the sake of his son. With sinking certainty, Thriss knew he could not wait for his father to make a new key. His father must be rescued from the Underdark, and soon.

At last, Thriss knew something he wanted. The question was, would anyone help him pursue it?

* * *

_~ DONAAR ~_

If Kamit thought she could force him to waste his time with thinking -- an activity Donaar already decided was pointless since he knew everything -- then she shouldn't have locked him in his own bedroom. Donaar fell asleep so fast even Nase would have been impressed.

Unfortunately, his dreams weren't on board with the no thinking idea.

This time the spiders all had Kamit's face, in colors of red, blue, green, black, and white. They chased him down the halls of the palace, snapping toothy jaws, swiping at him with their many legs. The floor jumped and buckled underfoot. Around him the walls of his home collapsed, sending up clouds of dust as he tumbled down, down, down, at last rolling to a stop on a dusty marble floor. He sat up and found himself in the underground temple. Nearby Thedral kneeled with her back to him. The dim light of the glowing gnome guttered like a dying candle nearby, outlining her unmoving figure. Both perched on the edge of the painted unholy circle, staring at something in its center. Garish color dripped from the broken faces of Vars Melis like tears.

Donaar approached with slow steps, dread curdling his insides. Was that…?

"You said you'd protect him," Thedral whispered. "You _promised._ "

Blood at the center of the circle. Bones. Scraps of tattered cloth. Red eyes open, staring upward, mouth slack, white hair stained crimson, blue skin mottled and marred. Donaar couldn't breathe from the pain in his chest. This wasn't right. Thriss wasn't dead, couldn't be dead.

"You said we were _friends,_ " Thedral snarled, accusing. She pulled a knife from her cloak and with a wordless cry of anguish and rage, rammed it into his chest.

Donaar awoke with a start.

"Well that was weird," he remarked to Kevin, rubbing his chest. Kevin nodded in agreement. "This is why you don't skip meals," Donaar grumbled. Another supportive shake from his tail. Donaar got up, pulling back the curtains. The orange light of sunset flooded his room. He'd been stuck in here for _ages._ "I don't get why we're even bothering," he said. "Should just get this whole wedding thing over with."

From the city below, a bell tolled the hour. Dinner time. It felt like Donaar hadn't eaten in weeks. Months. _Years._ Too long for a growing boy. This was dumb. Just another excuse for Kamit to be mean to him. He tromped over to the door. The moment before he turned the knob, he heard a cough from the other side. Right, Kamit posted guards. If he opened the door, she'd know, and the marriage would be called off.

Well, why should he care? It's not like he wanted to get married. Neither did Thriss! Except...

When Thedral made him promise to protect Thriss, she'd been so certain her brother would die if he didn't become Donaar's Royal Consort. That couldn't be true though, right? Probably just some weird drow craziness, along with boys only being allowed to be toys or whatever. Pretty sure that's what Thriss said. It's not like Thriss didn't find a way around that though, turning into a Paladin. Well, technically Donaar appointed him a Paladin, but still. The point was, drow rules were dumb, marriage was dumb, Kamit was the dumbest of all, and Donaar was hungry.

The image of Thriss' still and bloody body from his dream ghosted through his mind.

Donaar pulled away from the door and groaned. He couldn't _believe_ he was being starved like this, but he refused to give Kamit the satisfaction of being right. He'd wait as long as it took. In fact, he'd lock the door, only come out when _he_ felt like it. See how she liked that! Donaar turned the lock and felt smug satisfaction at the dull click of the bolt.

That'd show her.

Surveying the room for something to pass the time, he noticed the shiny dragon candlestick by the fireplace and remembered Thedral using it to leave his room on the day of the Galadaeros Rite. What if he could…?

Clamping his claws on the shiny copper sculpture, he yanked down. The secret panel popped open. "Ha!" he exclaimed, triumphant, and stepped through. Kamit told him not to open the door, but she never said anything about leaving another way. He could take the secret tunnels to the kitchens and she'd never even know he'd been gone. He gave himself a high five and started walking in what felt like the best direction. If you want to find a kitchen, follow your gut. Pretty sure that was the saying, and if it wasn't, it should be. Made perfect sense.

Ages later, Donaar decided his gut liked scenic routes and also really didn't want to go back to his room, because he'd been walking forever and had no idea where he was, other than another cramped, dark tunnel. To be fair, he didn't want to go back to his room either, so he couldn't really blame his gut. The kitchen had to be close now. He sniffed at the air and sneezed. Geez, didn't anybody clean this place? Just because the secret tunnels were secret and inside the walls wasn't an excuse! Donaar pressed his head to the flaking plaster, hoping to hear the clatter and bustle of food preparation.

Silence…and then a wheezing, rhythmic buzz, like the labored breathing of a great beast.

A shiver of foreboding shook his shoulders. Donaar picked up the pace, but Kevin brought him up short by wrapping around some sort of handle in the wall. "Not _now_ Kevin!" Donaar hissed, pulling against his tail, but the appendage held fast. He gripped a beam in the wall and heaved. With muffled squeal of rust the lever Kevin found swung down and the portion of the wall Donaar held onto for leverage swung outward. He yelped in surprise, then turned it into a more dignified battle cry.

"Yiiii---AAAAAAhh- _HA!_ I figured it out! Me! Who says I didn't?" he shouted to the dark interior and its mysterious beast occupant.

A snort of alarm met his statement and a scratchy voice, heavy with sleep, huffed, "Wha--!? Who's there?"

A flush of cold, then heat, ran through Donaar's body in quick succession, leaving him queasy. "…Dad?"

"Nase? Nase is that you?"

Donaar's eyes adjusted to the dim light. Low coals glowed in the fireplace, just bright enough to illuminate his father's bed. It looked…smaller than he remembered.

"No, it's me, dad. It's…it's Donaar."

His father sat up, squinting at him. "You? Ha! Donaar's a child. Who are you? What do you want?" His father raised his voice, alarm giving way to outrage. Any louder and a servant outside might hear. Donaar rushed to the bed, shushing his father.

"Dad, no, it's me! Your son!"

"Stay back! Guards? _Guards!"_ the King bellowed, lashing out as his son leaned over him. Donaar caught the blow, shocked at how weak his father's hands had become.

"No, not again, come on dad, it's okay, it's me! Shh! _Shh!"_ Donnar reached out, tapping his father on the nose. "Boop," he said, without his usual enthusiasm. A burst of copper orange light lit the room and his father's eyes widened in recognition.

"Oh!" The King ceased struggling, his other hand coming up to touch his son's cheek. "…Donaar? _Donaar._ How…how could I have…?"

A knock sent Donaar diving to the opposite side of the bed. He curled up in the shadows just as the door opened and a servant said, "My King? Are you well?"

"Ah…just…just a dream," his father replied, giving Donaar a wink.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, that's fine --"

" _Snacks,_ " Donaar hissed.

"Pardon, sire?" the servant asked.

"Actually, I'm a little hungry," his father said.

Donaar's stomach growled.

" _Very_ hungry. Enough for two!" the King declared.

"I'll fetch the finest the kitchen has to offer, sire. The physician will be pleased to hear you've an appetite tonight."

"Agh, that buzzard. Don't tell him a thing or he'll be in here fussing. Let's keep this quiet, shall we? No need to ruin a good meal with a doctor poking and prodding."

"Of course, sire. I won't tell a soul," the servant said. The door shut and Donaar exchanged a conspiratorial smile with his father.

"Just like the old days, hmm?" his father chuckled. "Help me up, let's play a Glimmer game while we're at it!"

Donaar assisted his father, pulling him out of the covers and guiding the elder dragonborn to a plush chair by the fire. The King put on a good show of strength, but Donaar could feel the shaking tremors wracking the once proud dragonborn body. They crossed the distance at a painful crawl and the King released a relieved sigh when he sat.

"Everything seems so hazy...What happened to me? Some sort of fever?" he asked as Donaar added more wood to the fire, brightening the room.

"Well…" Donaar began, but another knock sent him retreating to the secret tunnel, swinging it closed behind him. He heard the servant enter, remarking with surprise to find the King out of bed. The clatter of a tray and a waft of enticing odors set Donaar drooling. The servant fussed with blankets, to the King's growing impatience, finally leaving with a promise to check back soon. Donaar emerged from his hiding place as soon as the door shut, trotting over to the table and snatching up a plate full of food. Halfway through a roasted cat haunch, he paused.

"Oh…uh…want some?" he asked.

His father laughed and waved his hand, "Help yourself." The king pulled a bowl of broth toward him, picking up a spoon. Donaar's breath caught as he watched the King attempt to lift the liquid to his lips, but the wizened hand shook so violently the broth spilled down the front of his sleeping clothes. " _Vars!_ " he swore, and then said in a horrified hush, "What _happened_ to me?"

Donaar sighed and set the rest of his meal down, the greasy meat in his stomach a cold knot. He hated this part. "You…got sick, dad. Really sick. For a long time." _For as long as I can remember,_ he thought.

"Well, at least I'm better now!" his father said. When Donaar did not reply, he asked, "I… _am_ better now…aren't I?"

For a moment, Donaar thought about lying. Just a little lie, to keep his father happy. Where was the harm in that? Looking at the premature wrinkles and stark fear in his father's face, the resigned slump of once proud shoulders…Donaar couldn't do it.

"…This has happened before, hasn't it?" his father asked him. "You're…you're all grown up. My memories of you are so muddled. I recognize you, but…"

"But it won't last," Donaar said, heart heavy. "It never does."

"What kind of sickness is so great, even Vars Melis' power can't cure it?" his father slammed his fist on the arm of his chair in outrage. "Is it a curse? A punishment from the gods?"

"We don't know. Nobody does," Donaar told him. For years, rumors ran rampant about the King's mysterious illness. Like his father, some thought it a curse or sickness, but there were other theories. Whispers that his mother poisoned the King a little bit each night to usurp his power. Nobody ever made a formal accusation, but that didn't stop them from talking. As a ruler, people feared his mother, but they did not trust her.

"Dad…do you and mom…love each other?" he asked.

His father chuckled. "Of course we do. Your mother can be a difficult woman, but I've never seen a warrior as glorious in battle…or a smile quite as brilliant."

"I didn't know she _could_ smile," Donaar replied.

"Ha! You sound just like my mother-in-law. Your grandmother hated a good smile," the King grinned, sharp fangs catching the light. "I don't think she ever forgave me for teaching your mother to laugh."

If the idea of his mother smiling seemed unlikely, the thought of her laughing felt downright disturbing.

"That's what made us great together," his father continued. "Your mother taught me how to face down adversity without yielding an inch. And I taught her how to bend. Just a little," he laughed to himself and ruefully shook his head. "Maybe not always as much as I would have liked, but…well, if she relaxed too much, she wouldn't be the woman I fell in love with. Besides! A good argument now and then keeps you sharp!"

_Sharp_ certainly described his mother, even if Donaar couldn't reconcile anything else his father said with the woman he knew. His mother did not relax, or laugh, or smile. At least, not as long as Donaar could remember.

"What's all this about, Donaar?" the King examined his youngest son closely. "Something on your mind?"

"I'm…engaged, dad," Donaar said.

"Oh ho ho! Are you now! To whom?"

"A…uh, a drow. His name is Thriss. He's from the Underdark," Donaar felt his plates ripple with embarrassment. What would his father think of such a strange match?

"I see…And does this Thriss make you happy?" his father asked.

_Happy?_ Donaar thought of the little smothered laugh Thriss made when Donaar said something clever, the gentle smile when his request to become a Paladin was approved, and the childlike awe as the drow ran soft fingers over the decorated egg. A warm glow grew in his chest and Donaar looked down at his hands. Thriss…was odd. They barely knew each other, but Donaar felt certain the drow would have his back no matter what. Nobody had ever stood up for him like that to his mother, not even Nase. The memory of everyone turning to Donaar, seeing him, _really_ seeing him, and _listening_ to what he said made him feel whole. Like he really was all the amazing things Nase always said.

Not that he ever doubted, you know, how great he was. Just…it was nice for other people to see it.

Thriss saw it. In a weird way, it felt like Thriss saw him better than anybody else.

"I dunno," Donaar said, shaking his head. "He's…just so different and it's all happening so fast. Besides, it's not like what I think matters, you know? Mom's already decided --"

"Bah!" his father interjected. "I adore your mother, but that doesn't mean she can't be stubborn and controlling. Stand up to her, son! If you don't want to get married, say so!"

"It's not that I don't _want_ to," Donaar said. "Or, that I do. I just -- I don't know, okay? I don't know if he even likes me! Or if I like him…like that, I mean. He's fine, I guess…" Donaar trailed off as he remembered Thriss' skin on his scales and felt his stomach flip flop. He groaned, holding his head in his hands. "How am I supposed to know what I want? Why is that _my_ job??"

He grabbed the remainder of the cat haunch and shoved it into his mouth so he wouldn't have to keep talking, gnawing furiously on the bone.

His father smiled and sat back, staring at the fire. "Hmm…the best sort of marriage, I think, is when no matter what you want to do, you trust your partner to be on your side. Right until the very end…" his father's voice grew weary, and he yawned. "Ahh…I'm sorry my boy. Not sure…I'm up for that…Glimmer game anymore."

Donaar helped his father stand and return to the bed, each step slower than the last.

"Donaar…" his father said, voice faint with the effort, "You've got…so much greatness in you. God touched, I've always said so. Find…find someone who believes that…someone who sees…what I see."

Donaar bumped snoots with his father, fluffing the pillows and tucking the covers around his chin.

"Okay dad," he said.

"Love you, son."

Donaar sat for a long time at the side of his father's bed, listening to the rumbling, wheezing snores of the once great monarch. He couldn't understand how his father saw his mother so differently than everyone else. It was like his dad's mind was trapped in a time before Donaar was even born, married to a totally different woman. Had his father seen what he wanted to see, or was his illness what changed the Queen for the worse? Marriage might have brought his father joy, but did his mother feel the same? Or did she feel trapped, wishing she'd never gotten married in the first place?

Thinking, as usual, brought him nothing but a headache. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before I knew any of the backstory for what happened to Donaar's father and I've just decided to commit to it. This AU is a softer place than some of the alternative realities. Relatively speaking.


End file.
